Guys, I’m tired.
Last night I was awake until the wee hours, holed up in my living room, crying over an IKEA flatpack set of drawers.
It’s a story we’ve all heard before: girl goes to IKEA. Girl finds perfect set of drawers. Girl skims over instructions, decides it looks feasible, so girl buys drawers. Girl drags flatpack home.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: until this point in time, I thought I was special.
I am from Norwegian heritage, and always considered places like IKEA made for no-nonsense people like myself. I always appreciated their reusable bag policy, and I am low-key famous for my ability to get in and out of the store in the time it would take to wolf down one of their hotdogs.
But yesterday, something changed.
I wasn't on my A-game, I'll give you that. I was tired, I was moody, and I was accompanied by a friend who was not there as my usual IKEA wingman (bag holder, trolley pusher, hotdog eater) but as another punter with a long list of her own.
It was doomed from the start.
Two hours were spent wandering the display corridors (first expert tip: avoid the display corridors) as she browsed and I rode the trolley around like a teenager forced to go to Coles with mum.
By the time we were spat out at the plants section, I was four velvet-lined coat hangers, one pink ceramic pot, and a half-dead succulent deeper than I should have been, and ready to grab my flatpacks and leave immediately.