I’ve never taken a trip to Ikea by myself that didn’t end with profuse sweat and anxiety. I understand that Ikea is a wonderland of reasonable prices and organization. It’s just that I hate it. I’ve come to believe this is the Irish in me. We don’t do well with blond wood and flat-fold boxes. It makes us want a drink–not out of a tiny little glass upstairs at The Cafeteria.
Note James Joyce dejectedly pondering: How many Allen wrenches is it going to take to assemble this at home?
I had a good experience at Ikea when I went with my Swedish guide, Carrie. It all makes sense to her–the carts, the floor plan, the self-serve system. It’s great. But every time I go back by myself I break down. The Irish are not well-suited to this store. I think the furniture is nice but it just doesn’t say “stubborn and domineering” to me. I’m as likely to burn the Hensvik to keep the fire going as I am to assemble it. Every trip ends with me abandoning my so-called “cart” in frustration and hightailing it out of there. Like the father in Angela’s Ashes, I just can’t make good.
I wish I could effortlessly toss bundles of candles and piles of rugs into my cart. I guess it’s anger, humiliation, and vague poetic disappointment that trips me up. I love the idea of Ikea but once I’m there I’m suddenly seized with indecision. What size? Where could this go? What is this for? I know I need it and will regret not buying it but in the heat of the moment, it’s all too much. There’s a certain traffic pattern at Ikea with “shortcuts” and rules about entering and leaving. The self-checkout appears to be the only way out. Let my people go.
Note Bono seated uncomfortably in the Tullsta:
Don’t worry. I will never give up. Like my scrappy ancestors, I will keep at it until I get it or they politely ask me to leave. Each visit to Ikea brings with it the promise of a fruitful and pleasant shopping trip. As I pull into the flag-lined parking lot I ask, “Is this a great big box store altogether?”
T’is.
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Kristy says: I don't know where you got that picture of James Joyce but combined with your commentary it has been making me laugh for the last five minutes. We don't have Ikea in Colorado, so I've yet to visit. I feel so un-American.
Rachel says: I love Ikea, probably because I am German. I like to follow rules. And I really, really love this post: I never knew it was possible to find common ground between genealogy and shopping.
Emily says: I always end up buying the same thing at Ikea. Ginger Thins. I tromp around determinedly until my feet are burning from the concrete floors. I wend my way confusedly through the maze to the exit. And then, because I can't have driven out clear to this end of the valley for nothing, I console myself and justify the trip by purchasing Ginger Thins.