The IKEA Effect

by Patti

My mom recently embarked on a new chapter in her life, and part of that chapter meant downsizing from a 3-bedroom to a spectacularly tiny 1-bedroom. This of course meant she had to sell much of her furniture and replace it with furniture better-suited for spectacularly tiny spaces. Enter: IKEA. Those clever little Swedes - not only have they cornered the market on good skin and blonde hair, they have also certainly figured out how to maximize space, haven't they?

If you've never been to IKEA, you can't know the feeling that overcomes you as you near the bright blue and yellow building - at first a beacon in the distance; a glowing structure of glass questionably sturdy pre-fab-ness - and as you draw nearer, you are overcome with a sense of growing anticipation; that feeling that something is about to change. You see the simple block letters that spell out possibilities and fresh beginnings, and you actually might just get a little jittery with glee. You will circle the parking lot for some time, because you might foolishly believe that you will actually find a spot near the front. But no, don't bother. Just park the 3,925 miles away from the entrance and know that you will arrive; you'll just have to walk to get there.

But once you are inside; oh, once you are inside...

The day I accompanied my mom on her IKEA journey, S came along for the ride. She had never been to IKEA before, and though we were there for my mom, she couldn't help but be infected by IKEA FevAH. It began with the expected "WOAH!" as we pulled into the parking lot. "THIS WHOLE THING IS ONE PLACE?" Once inside, she looked up into the three stories of glass and escalators and Sunday shoppers stuffing their giant IKEA bags full of trinkets and glorious uselessness that, for some reason, the moment you step into an IKEA is suddenly very, very necessary. "MOM! Can we re-do my room?" I yanked her toward the escalator and led her and my mom to the second floor, where the goal was to find a couch. All the way up S yammered on. "I SO need a new room, Mom! Something more teenager-y. Can we get a new bed? Ooh! Can I get a couch in my room? Something cool where me and my friends can hang out? PLEEEASE?"

Once we reached the second floor, I expertly guided S away from the danger zone: The kids' bedrooms. We immediately found the couches - the first one we crossed was a turquoise number.

 "OH MY GAWD! MOM! THIS IS IT!" I steered her away, reminding her that we were here for her Nono, and to please focus on finding a couch for her. One that was not turquoise. We plopped down on a few and within 15 minutes actually found "The One". I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a pic of the item number, and we headed to find a dining room table. On the way, we snaked through countless aisles of magical goods: fairy-like lighting, colorful lampshades, room after room of fabulously decorated, yet suspiciously spotless, kitchens. "Okay, MOM? THIS is the kind of kitchen I want when I have my own place!" She pointed to an all-white kitchen - one that had no dirty dishes in the sink  or pizza hand prints on the counter tops. "NO WAIT! THIS ONE!" This time she pointed to a cherry kitchen. I hesitated. I needed this kitchen. 

We finally found the dining room tables, and were able to find one almost instantly. I snapped another pic, and started the treacherous journey through the remaining lands of quirky shower curtains, fluffy down comforters, jewel toned plates, decorative mirrors and picture frames, and then - the squeal.
"NO WAY! LOOK AT THIS ROOM!"

S ran into a red and pink bedroom and twirled in it, pretending it was hers. "THIS is how I want my room, Mom!" Never mind that the room was 5 times bigger than her room and included a pink couch and a flat screen TV. Clearly, it needed to be her room. We spent the next half hour pretend-living in various bedrooms, living rooms, and kitchens. "Mom? Wouldn't it be cool if we could just live in IKEA and then, whenever we get bored of a room, we could just move into another style?"

I looked around at all of the expertly decorated rooms, and as much as I told S to be happy with what she had, I couldn't help but compare them to my own house: Suddenly, it seemed dated, messy, BORING. It took everything I had not to snatch up all of the prefabricated, boxed-up goodness for my very own, and reassemble my house into something that would make me squeal.

Instead, we left, loaded down with my mom's prefabricated goodness, and, after spending the rest of my Sunday in IKEA-assembling-hell, I headed back to my non-IKEA, non-creative, fingerprint-y, dog hair-y, maybe boring, but somehow? Always comfortable home. As I sank into my non-IKEA couch, I slowly felt the IKEA Effect wearing off. I no longer felt inadequate or driven to to splash red onto my walls in some never-before-attempted, clever way. I marveled at the temporary insanity I had allowed to own my brain, and sunk deeper into the couch, remote in hand. "MOM! LOOK!" S ran into the room waving a magazine in her hand. "It's the IKEA catalog!"

Hjälp!