When I was in my late teens I used to fucking love Ikea. I would sometimes go just to wander the aisles feeling instantly at peace in the organized chaos that they were able to compact into a Billy Bookshelf.
Our love affair was long and passionate and filled with cheap fabric rugs, ever-changing bedding sets and more paper lamps than anyone could rip through in a lifetime.
In university when I was living off fruit cups and sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a room I painted neon pink one night when I was recklessly drunk and "inspired" (ed note. such "inspiration" also resulted in a neon blue living room, a kitchen with half drawn fruit-people on the wall, a fort in the den built out of pillows and sheets and a pumpkin carved with an exacto knife that led to a trip to the emergency room and a scar on my hand that still throbs when it rains) I dreamt of the days where I would be old enough and rich enough to live in a whole home (apartment) furnished by the items at Ikea that I had spent my youth drooling over. I too wanted to sort my socks in wicker baskets and stack my sweaters in something other than milk crates that I stole from the back of the cafeteria.
So, when I finally got my shit together and moved out with my then boyfriend, now fiance, I couldn't wait to walk through those sliding doors and begin to explore the endless possibilities with fancy Swedish names. Having scoured some of the cities best Vintage shops we had scored some amazing furniture already, I had found 2 art deco side tables on the side of the road (ya, I am totally that girl) and had a couch and mattress (both new) in possession as well- anything else was fair game from Ikea.
We left with; a bed, mirror, dresser, closet storage thing, desk and kitchen gadgets/dishes/stuff galore.
Most people loose their patience with Ikea the second they leave the store- if they manage to keep it while in the store to begin with. Ikea is large, oddly organized, fluorescent lighted, without cellphone service and filled with anything you never knew you really needed- it can be a dubious task for even the finest shopper. The line ups? forget about it. You need the patience of a fucking Buddha to make it through and the self check out things make everything you do longer and more annoying. I cant quite say that I love the line BUT it is usually lined with things like scented tea lights and clothespins in neon purple- I am easily distracted so this time passes by fast to me.
So, Ikea is a build it yourself joint meaning that anything you buy, you bring home and build yourself. I like tools and building so this to me, was just one of the many things I was looking forward to about Ikea. I thrived building the huge closet thing and bedframe while my fiancé cursed all of Sweden building the dresser....
In my Ikea-ized home I felt finally complete and loved running my hands over the fancy dark wood dresser that hate built, putting away shelves worth of clothing in the new closet and serving food on matching tableware. I felt like all my dreams were coming true in my new adult life.
But, like all unsustainable romances, we began to have our differences.
I would want to move the bed over an inch- the bed would want to splinter even though it was brand fucking new.
I would want to wash the plates and they would want to emerge from the machine with unsightly grey scratches on them.
Call it practicality, call it finally making money to care what I spent it on but I just began to resent Ikea and it's stupid fiber filled wood chipped furniture. Instead of rushing home excited ot see my Malm frame, I began to spend longer hours away from the bedroom altogether to avoid the new cracks and chips that formed on it any time it was used.
Where I would spend hours gingerly putting away my clothing into the giant closet storage thing marvelling at my fortune to have such a wonderful unit, I now shuddered at the sight of the newly ducktaped drawers that broke despite it only being a venue to store my socks- because socks can be so damaging right?
Eventually these differences turned ugly and got to the point where I used the word "hate" before "that fucking cabinet" and spent my time dreaming of an even better home furnished with things from Pottery Barn and West Elm. Gone were my days of aimless a gut nd unconditional love for the Ikea showroom and in its place lived a wrenching feeling that something had changed- something would never quite be the same again.
It had been almost a year since my last time with Ikea. When the catalogue came I barely glanced at the ironic printed sheets and lights in the shapes of spaceships and threw it in the recycle bin faster than you can say Karlstad Sofa. I felt sad about the love lost but annoyed and bitter for the years I had spent building and fostering the relationship and confused as to when and how things had changed.
And so, as it were, I found myself this past weekend at my parents new home with every single room requiring full furnishing. As everything in America- there is an excessive amount of big box stores with ultra Floridian furniture offerings. We got super lucky with beds, couches, TV units, chairs, diningestate antiques and vintage wares- stunning woods, intricate mouldings and one of a kind trinkets are everywhere there. Watching a house come together from nothing is a wonderful thing and I couldn't help but recall my joy from when I furnished my own home way back when. I guess it was this nostalgia that prompted me to jump in with an "Ikea will have it" when a super small kitchen table was needed. In fact, Ikea would have a space saving tiny kitchen table- it is like, their specialty- but I think I would have suggested it for anything at that point-I was subconsciously missing that blue and yellow signage.
Even with my parents in tow, that old feeling of instant serenity in Ikea was there. I gazed upon bedspreads I had never seen and throw pillows I didn't need and felt that old familiar flame igniting. I picked up glasses for 4 dollars, mirrors for 2 and, of course, what we came for, the tiny kitchen table- plus of course 2 nightstands that I could not live without and a set of kitchy lamps that went perfect with them. We ate frozen yogurt from their cafeteria, sauntered out the door with no hassles and as we drove home with boxes galore I felt like someone would feel after running into their ex who had become smarter, hotter and was still really into them. I was a smitten kitten.
Well fuck you Ikea and all of your stupid crap.
4 hours of furniture building later, after having to buy a whole fucking tooldbox to make the little tiny bedside tables, after maneuvering through the wonk instructions, chipping the fake wood shaving "mock wood" veneer, and breaking my back I remembered why we went our separate ways.
Because you suck Ikea, you suck giant balls.
Sure, there is a sense of self satisfaction after the fact- but like a quickie with just some dude, it meant nothing. It meant less than nothing and the joy was artificial and short lived at best.
Plus, of course my stupid 15 dollar lamp set came out of the box cracked. And that's what Ikea does, it woos you in with the cheap prices for cute items, you are blinded by how cute they are, you take them home and then BAM- the flaws come out- not unlike a real relationship that sucks right?
AND, for 15 dollars it is so not worth the drive back tot he store, the line up for the returns and the inevitable other things you will end up purchasing, since you are already there....
They trap you and suck you in- but I do declare that I am leaving you Ikea, leaving you for good. Minus your really soft cotton cheap sheets I will never purchase another crappy, seemingly so useful but realistically useless piece of shit self assembled furniture again. It's over, forever.
(or until the next time I get lonely).
Your jilted ex-lover,
Jane
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