I decided to purchase a lift chair, now known as my launch pad, thinking it will alleviate pressure on my oh-so-aching knees. You know the one I mean: it’s a chair, that with the poke of a button, carefully lifts the butt from a sit to a stand. Voila!
Besides its attractiveness, I am digging the features: heated seat, leg massagers, two remote controls, and two cupholders. One for white and one for red. And a side pocket where I can stash whatever it is that old people like to stash. In addition, it has stain avoidance, that is, if it gets stained by something yucky, like food, bodily fluids, snow, dog slobber, whatever, they replace the chair, no questions asked. That’s good because if I happen to spill ice cream or a red adult beverage on it, no problem: a new one, defunct of ickiness, would arrive in 10 minutes flat. Guaranteed by Prime.
It was delivered and I immediately gave it a whirl. Included was a long list of instructions in six languages, but I gave those a toss. Why would a chair need instructions? So, I sat down, elevated my feet, and sighed contentedly. Perfect, I could watch Netflix in comfort, and bonus, I could easily rise to get a snack!
I loved it. I punched a button on the remote to activate the leg massaging (M) and the heated seat (HS) functions. The second remote had two more buttons, L1 and L2, and because I am an overachiever, I hit L2, which logically would mean Lift. Had I read the instructions, I would have known that L2 actually meant Launch and because my fancy chair was still in massaging mode, it sprang me into the air. Luckily, I landed on my feet, which then danced across the room. I wasn’t hurt, but it made me think I should try to find those instructions…and a helmet.