Today I went to IKEA, the Swedish home furnishing store adored by majority of Americans. Aside from my typical suspicion that homes in Sweden aren't actually made up of much resembling the model rooms showcased by Ikea, I also became suspicious of why Americans adore Ikea. It's not even just Americans, it's most of Western civilization that seems to be completely unaware of the mediocre (but ever so affordable) quality of their products. I presume that it has something to do with the organization and arguable practicality of all that is on display seeing as that is exactly what pulls me in every time. I used to think the model rooms were fun to walk through. In fact, I even thought that while I was there. Who doesn't enjoy moving from one perfect living room to another and finding a series of perfect kitchens on the other side of a door frame? No one, right? Wrong. Aaron doesn't. He informed me today that he thinks the showrooms are freaky. I disagreed until I imagined looking down on Ikea from an aerial view. Person after couple after family follows arrows through various physical displays of furniture and decor arrangements in hopes that the materialistic maze they have entered will serve its sole purpose of presenting to them materials to purchase. It's a little bizarre, maybe a little freaky.
Anyway, I succumbed to my consumer desires and let my mother buy me a desk. I reassured myself that it's okay because "I need it" and it makes me feel like Carrie Bradshaw, which are easily two of the best reasons that a girl can give for buying anything.
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