I bought a sofa at a vintage shop once. It was very long and very low-slung, with mid-century modern lines and awesome upholstery. The price was something ridiculous, like $15, and by doing very scientific measurements (i.e. counting the number of hand-widths across it and squinting my eyes) I decided that it’d be a perfect fit for our bedroom, placed at the end of the bed so that we could toss our clothes and bags on it at the end of the day. It would be like a bench-couch, and I would lounge across it in a dressing gown and read my books with a martini like a very glamorous Rita Hayworth.
The only problem was that when I took the sofa out of the cavernous shop and put it in our less-than-cavernous bedroom, I realized the thing was actually huge. Like nine-feet-long huge. I ended up having to move all of our bedroom furniture around to fit it, and five years later, the whole couch issue is still a bit of a sore subject with my husband, who was perfectly comfortable without the giant-person couch in the bedroom at all and who didn’t appreciate coming home to find the bed in a completely different spot.