In Wonderland

"It's an experience," she said.

Yeah right, I thought. It was a furniture store. A cheap furniture store. There was some cute looking stuff in the catalogue, but isn't that true of most catalogues? Nonetheless, I was excited to have money to shop anywhere, and I always like to get cool things for my imaginary perfect apartment that is maybe going to materialize one of these days and be the cutest thing you've ever seen.

The plan was to get some spice jars that had caught my eye, cute shape, clever design, a fun thing to have in a theoretical new apartment where I would suddenly start cooking. In, out, look around, spice jars. An easy early-morning stop before we headed back home.

"Are you sure you want to go in the morning? I don't know if you'll have enough time..." she said.

Enough time???!!! Spice jars!

The date was set, the plan was made, shopping in the morning with someone else's money, yippee! And the fact that she was so excited made me think maybe it was an extra-cute furniture store. Where you could buy swedish meatballs. Weird.

The bright blue and yellow doors greet me first thing in the morning, along with a cheery employee and several signs imploring me to take a map and a pencil and write things down so they'll be easier to find later. Huge arrows point THIS WAY and I wonder if we are all shopping like sheep, or ants marching along in a little row. Can't I just wander?

"Be careful and stay together, cell phone's don't work very well inside and if we get separated it will be really hard to find each other," she says.

What am I in second grade? I have to hold your hand while I'm shopping, too?

After using the bathroom in preparation for my long and arduous journey I follow the arrows and step onto the escalator toward the SHOW ROOM, tensing a little in anticipation and trying to get a glimpse of my fate before I quite get there.

As the escalator tops out, suddenly, before my eyes room upon room come into view, all neatly furnished with cute and inventive details, every room with its own style and colors, everything apparently designed by geniuses. Open the cupboards, pull out the drawers, slide the door, look inside, everything cleverly organized in cute little containers, neatly tucked away.

For a girl who is currently living with a walking human tornado who thinks everything should go where it is within reach (make-up on the couch, red pepper flakes and salt and pepper shakers on the coffee table) this is like walking into the life of my dreams. Or heaven.

I browse from room to room opening every door, cupboard or drawer I can get my hands on, marveling at the things that pop out. They make really complete rooms, with a hook for the oven mitt near the oven door and real books on the shelves and real clothes in the closets. The only thing that does not open is the toilet-seat as my mom jokingly pretends to pee in the mock-up bathroom.  We sit in chairs, peek into corners, marvel at modern engineering and space saving ideas and ooh and ahh at decorating schemes, completely losing ourselves in this magical fake world.

I find some shelves that I really like and look at the tag to see what I'm supposed to write down to find them later. Aisle 12, bin 32.

I imagine long dark rows with oppressively tall shelves filled with flat boxes for more convenient shipping. 

"Put it together yourself," they say, "you can save money."

What if the box is too heavy or I get home and realize I'm actually not very handy and should really leave that job to someone else?

Moving on, we come to a giant room filled with nothing but couches and chairs, different colors and styles all lined up for easy color coordination, and we take the opportunity to take a break and test out a few chairs. After finding the chair of my dreams (and curtains that match) I ask someone what time it is and realize I've already been shopping for more than an hour. All I've been doing is following arrows through a maze of fake rooms with no end in sight. There's still a downstairs. And meatballs.

We decide to hurry since neither of us is buying furniture and most of the other merchandise is on display downstairs anyway, so now we walk faster and rooms start to flash by, living rooms, bedrooms, and then kitchens and work spaces and offices, and I start to feel like Alice in Wonderland, moving down a hallway and seeing doorways into different worlds flashing by. Every so often I'm drawn in by something in a particular world and that room snaps into focus for a few seconds until I'm rushed on again and everything is once again a blur.

Finally we turn a corner and spot the cafeteria- meatballs, salads, salmon, cinnamon rolls, a breakfast with eggs and toast and hashbrowns for $1.95.  It looks like a mall food court, with people lining up and pulling their selections out of coolers.

We nix the food because we are in a hurry, and instead grab a drink of water before heading down the escalator to the lower-level, a basement-like cavernous maze filled with piles and piles of things in boxes. Everything looks cheap close-up. I'm immediately overwhelmed.

I look for the spice-jars from the catalogue, and pick up several other things that I think I want, but always put them back down and move on to the next, amazed by the amount of stuff down there and limited by the $30 gift card. What is the most important thing to get? The most fun? What will I use the most now, and what will I use the most later? Should I get something that I probably won't use at all now, but will really like once I move to a new place?

It's all sort of too much for me, and while my mom decides on a few purchases I start to think I can't get anything this time, because I can't really decide and I don't have enough time. And it's hard to go back to get things I saw earlier, what with all arrows and everything. After a little pushing I decide I can always come back for those things and just move ahead, picking out a duvet cover and a lamp that will always be useful no matter where I live. We plow on through the piles of displays and try to hurry, and finally decide we don't have time to think anymore and we have to just go check out. Right at that moment I remember the bookshelves I had been looking at and set off down Aisle 12 to find it. At bin 32 I stop and look again at the cheap price-tag and the cheaply made shelves and decide to forgo it and just stick with what I've got. I don't really have space for more shelves in my room right now anyway. That big flat box would just take up space until I move. 

Satisfied that I made some good choices I move finally to the check-out line, buy a large tarp-like bag to carry my stuff in, and blink as I walk back out into the sunlight. I feel dazed and confused and a bit wobbly, and I look back over my shoulder at the building looming behind, remembering the wonderland upstairs. We shopped for two-and-a-half hours. Rushing. There were things I still wanted to see.

Next time I go to Ikea, I'm setting aside a good three hours. Or four.