37. Swedish Furniture

I am such a poser.  My townhouse is lined with damaged Swedish furniture like the Ikea showroom.  I must not really hate Ikea.  I had a twinge of regret, however, when I rolled into the Ikea parking lot.  Why had I done this to myself?  All the girl had done was invite me to her house-warming party.  Why had I followed up with a promise to buy the girl a table and put a mosaic on the top?  I am such an idiot.  The girl has sent me email reminders about the table I promised and handed me a catalog of Ikea furniture with some circled suggestions.  F*%$!

As I walked begrudgingly across the parking lot I made up my mind that I would treat Ikea like a shut elevator filled with a stranger’s wild farts.  I would grin, bear it, and hope to find my way out as soon as possible.  I went through the doors clearly marked exit.  I refused to be trapped in their showroom maze.  As I walked swiftly down the aisles with boxed mysteries I quickly realized I would have to go upstairs in order to have some idea about what I needed to buy.  I lapped the place two times before I asked one of the preoccupied salesgirls where I might find the type of table I was looking for.  She looked perturbed because I had interrupted the deep conversation she was having with her coworkers.  By the time I found the table I had passed twice three hours had passed by.  I started to panic.  Where was the exit?!  I’m starving!  I don’t want any Swedish meatballs!  I have got to get out of here!  Another sales person gave me directions to one of those passageways that shortcuts through the maze.  As he pointed in the direction I needed to go he was obviously puzzled by my look of alarm.  I scurried to the passageway like I was escaping a mob of zombies.  I left with about thirty dollars’ worth of items in addition to the table I had originally came for.  I’m an Ikea victim.  I should start a support group.

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