Hitting Bottom at Ikea

I don’t think this is the kind of information one should share freely, but…

Because I am remodeling my home from the top down… and because I have no idea how to do these things without doing 75% of it incorrectly and having to redo it again and again and again… I have been in Ikea every single day this week.

Every. Single. Freakin’. DAY.

Anyone who’s lived on this earth knows that Ikea is almost always unbearable. But the absolute worst day to go to Ikea is Saturday. Don’t ever do it. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even point.

What are Saturdays at Ikea like?  Well, imagine if you took the entire population of Disneyland and shoved it into a warehouse. Thousands of young parents, little kids, and their grandparents. No: millions. And every single one of them working hard to create a complete Catalusterfuck directly in your path, everywhere you go.

That, my friend, is the essence of Ikea. That is its true purpose. Not to sell you upbeat, quirkily modern home furnishings at economic prices, but to provoke a violent and spectacular end to civilization.

On Saturday I got trapped behind a Catalusterfuck somewhere around the living room exhibitions. Rabidly looking for a shortcut, I finally spotted a clear path directly to my right. I veered to that side, accidentally stepping on a small child.

I kept going, not even pausing to look back to see if the kid was okay, nor to relish the gasps and comments of disapproval from the parents and nearby onlookers: “What nerve! That awful woman! Is the child okay?”

I knew the kid was okay. After all, it didn’t scream. And if the kid didn’t cry, then I was well within the bounds of acceptable. That kid was so fucking fine that I could have gone back there and stepped on it again. That’s how much I did not hurt that fucking kid, okay?

But I’m not the only one who experiences Ikea Rage. I see others succumbing to it all the time:

The twenty-something girl doggedly looking for a short cut through the masses of somnambulists engrossed in “Billy” bookshelves.

The rail-thin, hipper-than-thou gay couple trapped behind a woman with a enormous stroller, her husband and her joined-at-the-elbow-and-thus-even-wider-than usual elderly parents in “Closets”.

The line of 15 people at the information counter in “Kitchens”, silently seething as they wait for the customer service professionals to wrap it up with the whiny, high-maintenance woman sucking up everyone’s time. As a fun way to while away the hours, they eye the box of short little pencils next to the stack of applications for the Ikea Family Card, and imagine sinking them into both her eyes.

Watching others succumb to panic attacks, hyperventilation, depression and murderous rage is one of the few benefits of being trapped in Ikea. Nothing takes away the sting like seeing others suffer just as much or even more than you.

I know one thing; Ikea employees excepted, no one has listened to the entire goddamn Ikea ambient music soundtrack, from start to finish, as many times as I have for these past five weeks.

And when you’ve been unable to stop singing “Abacab”, “Baby I Love Your Way”,”Hitchin’ a Ride”, and that Simply Red song that sounds more like Carly Simon, for over a month, even on your non-Ikea time…

…that’s when you know you’ve hit bottom, my friends.