The Legend of the Couch Pouch

Before there was the Snuggie, there was the Couch Pouch. 

Now to fully explain the sheer awesomeness of said Couch Pouch, I have to set up the story of how I came to know about this little gem…

Around my parts, there was this thing called “Sneaky Christmas.” Sneaky Christmas started out with my grandmother. She had had breast cancer, and one breast removed, so she would take the fake, jelly boob out of her bra (to make it less suspicious), and stuff presents there and deliver them, like an oddly-shaped Santa… Christmas night, Gran wouldn't know what Nannie had spent.

Well, as the tradition of Sneaky Christmas grew, my mom began incorporating it. I’m not entirely sure who she was sneaking from, but my sister and I were not about to stop anyone from starting Christmas early…

One year, my sister got this mystery gift wrapped in reindeer wrapping, and topped with an elaborate red bow. We knew it was going to be good… That bow was Mom-code for, “This is going to be amazing!” I was working on my bowless, sneaky gift, as my sister began to rip the wrapping to shreds. 

 

She shone her braces in a huge smile to let me know it lived up to the bow, and I would be jealous.

I still don’t remember what I opened at that time, but I will never forget my sister and her red Couch Pouch.

Now this is what a Couch Pouch essentially is: a long, floor-length, fleece robe, that has a half zip; only thing is, the bottom is sewn together, with two footie-holes. Basically a huge sack of fleece, which is an adult-ones-ie.

My sister quickly put on her first Couch Pouch, and began running and dancing through the house, celebrating through song, “Couch Pouch! Couch Pouch! IMMA COUCH POUCH!!!” My sister’s 5 ½ years older than me, and way cooler in most every way. I always wanted to be like her. And seeing her so happy, enjoying her fleece-footed person-sack… I knew my life wasn’t going to be able to achieve that level of excitement. 

Now whenever we watched TV, or played with things, I would have to constantly fight my robe to cover my feet. But my sister? Never again! She would be able to simply tuck her feet into her warm haven. Or what if I instead used a blanket in a pitiful attempt to keep my poor, childish body warm and I needed to walk to the kitchen for some Christmas cookies? Well then I would just have to struggle with the blanket, getting tangled in it, potentially getting twisted up, falling over, hitting something—what if the lack of a Couch Pouch in my life rendered me eternally injured or paralyzed?! How could my mother have put me in this peril, when all my sister would have to do is pop her large feet out of those glorious little footie holes, and march right into the kitchen, get the boiled custard and come back to watch TV, and pop her feet back in without the danger or worry of death? It wasn’t fair, and I continued to let others know how unfair it was by sulking around the house.

Finally, Christmas came. My sister strutted into the room in her Couch Pouch singing that cursed song that I’d never be able to sing. I looked at her jealously as I picked up a non-bowed, plainly wrapped present.

 I opened it up, and there, shining before my eyes was my very own Couch Pouch! And what was more surprising? IT WAS SUPERIOR TO MY SISTER’S—as if to compensate for the longer wait—because it was BLUE!!! (Let’s face it, we all know that blue is better than red.)

I quickly clobbered into my beloved Couch Pouch, began strutting, and joined in the chorus of The Couch Pouch song. It was everything I had dreamt of and more.

Now fast forward about 15 years… I still had my Couch Pouch, and was working as an RA my sophomore year. Boyfriend (before he became Fiancé) and I had been together maybe a month or two, and I bust out the Couch Pouch to share this piece of awesomeness with him. He clearly had missed the memo on how awesome this article of clothing is, and asked judgingly, “What is that thing?” as I held it up proudly.

Me: “It’s a Couch Pouch… Duh.”

Then-Newly-Boyfriend: “I see…” (Not really getting it.)

Me: “Well, let me show you…” (This has got to help him understand!)

Then-Newly-Boyfriend: “K…”

I’m climbed into my trusty Couch Pouch to model its excellence for him, but he still wasn’t getting it. How could I help him understand the sheer genius of my dear friend, Señor Couch Pouch?! I even did the song and dance, but something wasn’t clicking for him. He didn’t get how the giant ones-ie had saved my life and helped me to continue walking. And I couldn’t explain it.

As time wore on, and my love for my Couch Pouch never wavered, Stephen began to actively hate it. His spoken reason? “I’m sorry. You’re very cute, and have a nice body… But I don’t like anything that makes my girlfriend look like a giant amoeba!” (Sometimes amoeba was exchanged for “deflated blueberry”, but all the same…)

The real reason he hates it so much? Same as it was for me… Pure, undying jealousy. That and fear of paralysis.

The good news is, the Couch Pouch’s presence has become the greatest bargaining tool ever. Its temporary retirement wins me the end of irksome habits and even back rubs. It is a human fleece-bag that just keeps giving, and asks only that you stay warm in return.