Submit to IKEA

Last weekend, I went through a rite of passage that I'd been putting off ever since crossing the twentysomething threshold quite some time ago: I made my first trip to Ikea. I wasn't particularly insecure about my status as an Ikea virgin. In fact, I was quite content that way. But a need arose (cheap but not entirely ungodly window coverings) and I'll be darned if Ikea wasn't the most logical place to fulfill it. Or so it seemed.

Once I realized I needed to go to Ikea, I couldn't fight my anti-Ikea feeling anymore. You could say I'd forgotten what I was fighting for. At any rate, let the record show that my capitulation was not the result of peer pressure from any Ikea-slut friends. I went willingly, and of my own accord. And in true yuppie fashion, I drove my car. Because you never know what gigantic, unwieldy boxes you might end up bringing home from Ikea, once it gets its seductive, Swedish modern claws into you.

The parking lot alone was enough to start me questioning the decency of humanity. The entrance was congested with kindergarteners and over-eager parents, lining up in front of a large sign that stated that the wait for entry to the kids' play area was 30 minutes. Shuddering, I looked at the nearest store map and tried to locate the "textiles" section. I soon realized, with horror, that Ikea is modeled on the Honest Ed's floor plan: one entrance, one exit, and miles of non-negotiable, retail rat maze in between. Except no gefilte fish here.

Like many of my generation before me, I surrendered to Ikea's will and began trekking through the various showrooms. Not surprisingly, many people had apparently given up on shopping altogether and were instead taking up residence in the rooms: reading the fake books on the shelves, putting their feet up, noshing on meatballs and lingonberry sauce. Most surreal of all were the various young, attractive couples wandering the floor together hand-in-hand, pausing here at a "Hensvik" bookcase, there at a set of "Lisbet" pot holders, and staring into each other's eyes dreamily. I had a bizarre thought: Ikea stroll as foreplay? Whatever gets you through the night/TV & media solutions section, I suppose.

I hustled my way downstairs, eventually arriving at the curtain display I'd been seeking. I took some time to browse and was pleasantly surprised to find something close to what I'd been looking for. Positive feeling towards Ikea started to wash over me. Maybe I shouldn't have hurried through the showrooms, I thought. Maybe there was more, so much more, that Ikea could offer me.

But then I happened to glance across the aisle to where a cute, earnest couple stood locked in battle over a bin of "Ekvator" curtain rings. The loving looks I'd seen them exchanging before had completely disappeared; now, their voices were escalating in ever-sharper tones, their body-language increasingly confrontational (eg. demonstrative wielding of the "Lill" curtain rods). And then it became clear to me. Ikea may seem like it can help you. It might seem like your friend. But eventually, Ikea will break you. It turns children against parents, friends against friends, and lovers against lovers. So be forewarned. I got out, with my sanity and my relationship intact. But I was lucky. And I'm not going back a second time.

But if I do, I'm taking the subway.