True test of love? Buying a recliner

This column was going to be about the death of shame, inspired by Tom Finneran's emotional apology after pleading guilty to obstruction of justice and Bill Belichick's mea culpa -- prompted by his uncivilized behavior following a big victory.

But then my husband and I went shopping for his chair, the one I promised to buy him for Christmas, during the after-Christmas sales. (My tombstone will someday read: "She never paid full price.") I had to share the experience, knowing that many women can relate.

In my husband's eyes, The Chair had to possess only two qualities: It had to recline, and it had to swivel. Think Joey and Chandler in "Friends." I added a third necessity: It had to be presentable. Given the other two criteria, this was a challenge.

"You don't have to like it," my husband said, generously.

My husband is a man of few material needs. He buys his clothes at Costco and, for finer wear, at Bob's. He doesn't know from decor, and he doesn't care. We started in the clearance room at Jordan's Furniture in Avon. There, before you even walked in, were four such chair-beasts. My husband plunked down into one and pulled the lever that makes the thing recline. Legs up at a 90-degree angle, back extended, he closed his eyes. Only the remote and the Patriots were missing.

The chair, of course, was ugly, which I pointed out. He shrugged, eyes still closed. I tried again. "If God had intended for people to lie down in chairs, he would have . . ."

"Created the BarcaLounger -- which he did," my husband interjected.

"Are you sure it has to swivel?" I asked.

"Of course," he answered patiently.

"Does it have to have that thing on the side?" I asked.

"That's what makes it recline."

"Does it come in any fabric other than deep-pile synthetic?"

He wasn't paying any attention to me. A beatific smile creased his face, and I knew it was time to hustle him away. We walked down the rows of sofas and chairs. He stopped in front of a brown chair and sank into it. "You are going to love this," he said. "Once you sit in it, you're going to buy it."

About that missing remote: Well, this chair came with one. Push a button and it massages your back. Push another and it works on your glutes. Another button and it vibrates, sort of like a jackhammer. It literally made my teeth chatter. There was even a hollow on the arm in which to put your drink. It had Homer Simpson written all over it.

"It's a deal. It's $497, and it originally was eighteen ninety-eight," he said.

"Eighteen dollars and ninety-eight cents? It's overpriced."

"Very funny."

My husband found another chair marked way down. It met all the qualifications, except it was purple. "This isn't brown?" he asked. The only thing worse than a man with no taste is a colorblind man with no taste.

He found still another recliner that had a remote temperature control for your bum. No, no, no.

My husband has an ally at home: our son, whose taste also runs to recliners with remotes. This is a sex-typed trait, present at birth in all male babies. My only natural ally in this was my daughter, who was returning to college. Her parting advice: "Learn to live with it, Mom."

Good advice for any marriage.

We left Jordan's with two possibilities: a brown leather recliner or a beige fabric recliner, which would match the rest of our living room furniture better. I could, to coin my daughter's phrase, live with it. Possibly.

Next on my husband's list was Costco, nearby. He had a coupon for $100 off a leather lounger, though it wasn't good until the end of January. "I just want to see it," he said.

I had to stock up on a 72-ounce bag of chocolate chips, so in we went. We passed by a 67-inch flat-screen TV. "Hey, that would look great in front of my new chair!" my husband said. He was teasing, I think.

We quickly found the leather chair, which was enormous -- definitely a Papa Bear chair. My husband went through the drill: leaned back, pulled the lever, put legs up, tested the swivel. A woman and man walked by. The man paused by the chair for a moment, but the woman hurried him on. "I wouldn't want that thing in my living room," she said.

Inflexible wench, I thought to myself. And I totally agreed with her.

In the spirit of Christmas and giving, I asked my husband which chair he liked best. "You mean that beautiful supple brown leather chair that swivels and reclines and fits me perfectly, or that ugly beige thing?" he asked.

It looks as if our living room will soon be home to a brown leather-ish recliner. I guess it could have been worse. My husband could have been partial to the plaid one with the cup holder.

Merry Christmas, darling.

Columnist Bella English of Milton can be reached at english@globe.com.