IKEA is a Four-Letter Word

IKEA, my arch-nemesis. We met again this last Saturday. Walking through their maze of contemporary furnishings that create a sense of euphoria for the masses reminded me how Jonah felt in the belly of a great fish. I am swallowed, and digested through mind-numbing patterns and indecipherable Swedish names that call to me like sirens. I toyed with the idea of tying myself the the shopping cart and stuffing wool in my ears to avoid their call, but I couldn't find rope that was strong enough for the task.

IKEA is not my enemy, though. I realize that now. The enemy had been well-hidden underfoot, and very nefarious indeed. My true enemy is housed within the bright blue building, bidding me to war. The enemy? Area Rugs.

It started out as an innocent conversation between Becky and I, musing one day on how we could cover these bare floors in our home, making it feel warm and inviting. Little did I know that this would result in multiple trips to IKEA, hunting and exploring with skills akin to Dr. Livingston (I presume) to find the perfect rug.

This was surely my first realization that nothing comes easy, with marriage it requires a constant state of diplomacy, love and compromise. My armament of diplomacy was extremely low during these first few month of matrimonial bliss, and the love covered up my shortcomings. Through pain, tears, and temper-tantrums (all on my part), we have found the area rugs to adorn our living room, bedroom and kitchen. There is still one more that remains. One rug to rule my life. But this battle will not bow to an area rug as the victor. I will become master of all rugs, and never let them rule again...

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