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.