Some Assembly Required

"All of us are born with a set of instinctive fears - of falling, of the dark, of lobsters, of falling on lobsters in the dark, or speaking before a Rotary Club, and of the words "Some Assembly Required." --Dave Barry, American writer and humorist.

Sometimes life feels like something you get at IKEA. You see the object in the catalog or online or at your friend's house. And you think: that brick red bureau with the artfully "distressed" wood would look great in the corner of the bedroom under the window near the plant that doesn't get enough sunlight. Don't you think so, dear? you say to your SO.* Then as you drive home, or log off, or close the catalog, you picture said bureau in the bedroom with freshly laundered (and neatly folded) clothes in it. You picture the poor houseplant that is thirsty and bedraggled thriving on top of the dusty red chest of drawers. You picture sunlight streaming through the windows (that are obviously sparkling clean and streak-free in this daydream), bringing the plant back to life and you smile because you think all you need to do is drive up the freeway to IKEA, barter with other cars for a parking spot (only to find you are still almost 1/4 mile away), walk through the doors that automatically open, (apparently they know you can't waste energy on opening a door, you're going to need it for the "some assembly required" part of the IKEA purchase) find the aisle in the giant cavern of a warehouse that contains this new little bit of heaven that you've been daydreaming about, pay for it (all while marveling how inexpensive it is), load it in the car, stop for take-out and a 6-pack of beer to help sweeten the deal when you ask your SO to assemble it, hold the door open while you and your SO wrestle the strangly shaped and deceptively heavy box into the house, open the beer for the SO and one for yourself and plop down on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns and give your toenails a quick touch-up with pink nail polish and offer moral support while your SO grunts and swears and creates new frown lines in his face from constant scowling for 2+ hours while putting it together.

And the beautiful red chest of drawers magically gets assembled (even though it took a few more beers and some promises on your part to swap chores for the week (actually I think it was more like a month). And you both heave it into the bedroom and stand back. The SO to admire his handiwork and genius that he figured out that bracket a and bracket b were not meant to live in nuts and bolts matrimony like the instruction pamphlet insinuiated but actually were not even necessary and he has triumphantly thrown them in the trashcan. You open a drawer expecting to find neatly placed linens that are wrinkle-free and that have just come in from being dried on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers. You expect to see that because that's what's supposed to happen. You bought the dresser from IKEA. You assembled it yourself (okay, the SO did), you used the laundry detergent that promises that "smells like it was line dried in the sun on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers" scent. But in reality, the drawer kind of catches a little and makes a funny squeaking noise when you open it all the way. And you didn't get the clothes in the dryer soon enough so they sat in the washer and got all wrinkly while you contemplated painting your fingernails to match your toenails. And you turn around to complain to the SO (not realizing the absurdity of what you are about to complain about, after all he did just assemble the darn thing, isn't that enough, I mean, come on Valerie, get a grip) and you see that he has parked himself on the couch to seek solace in ESPN. And you sigh and take the wrinkly t-shirts out and set the dryer on the "fluff cycle, no heat" with a fabric softener sheet and start working on the dishes which have inexplicably materialized because didn't you just have take-out for dinner and where are the dirty dishes coming from.

A couple of weeks pass and while the IKEA purchase was not able to rescuitate the neglected houseplant and you guiltily threw it in the compost wondering why you can't seem to keep houseplants happy, you do notice that the framed picture of you and the SO looks really cute on it. He's smirking in that mischievous way that you find so charming and you're wearing a puffy red vest that matches the brick red "distressed" wood of the dresser and you had just got your hair done (blonde highlights) and the picture was taken at the Thanksgiving when you met your brother's first child and the big topic of conversation was where did she get her red hair and look at those big brown eyes and your brother is convinced she looks like you did when you were a baby. And while you're putting the clothes away (not bothering to fold them, because really who has the patience for that) you realize that the squeaky drawer isn't as annoying. In fact, it kind of makes you giggle as you remember the day that you and the SO vowed to never again purchase items with the warning of "some assembly required" on the box.

Fast forward a few years, and you find yourself writing a blog entry about the one and only time you and the SO bought furniture from IKEA and you remind him of it and he rolls his eyes and exhales loudly and states simply never again and there's no amount of beer that's worth that again. And you laugh and you think about how life is sometimes like something you get at IKEA. You start out with what you think is a brilliant idea, you go to execute it (sometimes quite clumsily, especially in my case) and there's all these steps that seem like they take a lot of time and effort and some of them feel like roadblocks, but you muddle your way through it and the finished product looks nothing like what it was supposed to look like in your head. And you sulk and pout and stamp your foot in irritation. And then you cool off and you realize the finished product is actually better than what you pictured and had planned for and now has a good anecdote. And you realize that you don't really care about neatly folded clothes and thriving houseplants (although you certainly would never turn them down). You realize that the dresser has now become a piece of your history with your SO and there is something comforting about hearing that squeak when you open that middle drawer and it catches and kind of locks into place. And you find yourself calling to your SO as he sits in the other room watching ESPN saying hey babe, come check out this adorable bookshelf I just found on IKEA website. We could put it in the living room and store all of my journals on it. And maybe we could go to the plant nursery this weekend and find a cactus or some ivy to put on it. Oh and wouldn't that picture of us at your sister's wedding look great on it. And you find yourself in that daydream again while your SO sighs, kisses you on the forehead and heads to the kitchen to find the take-out menus and the bottle opener.

*SO=Significant Other