It all began with a deceptively innocent suggestion from my wife. “Let’s get a new dresser for the bedroom,” she said. “It’ll be easy,” she said. Little did I know that I was about to embark on the most grueling, patience-testing, rage-inducing experience of my adult life: assembling flat-pack IKEA furniture.
Now, I’ve heard the IKEA horror stories before, but like any foolish optimist, I thought, How bad could it really be? It’s just some pieces of wood, a few screws, and a cartoon guy giving you a thumbs up on the instruction manual. I’ve built things before—I wasn’t some clueless amateur. So, we went to IKEA, picked out the dresser, and came home with that heavy, cardboard box of doom. My wife, ever the encourager, handed me the instructions and said, “It’s only six steps, love. You’ll be done in an hour.” Ah, the sweet sound of overconfidence.
I opened the box, and out poured a mountain of unidentifiable wooden planks, screws of various sizes, dowels, brackets, and a single Allen key—a tool of mass frustration. The first red flag? The instructions weren’t six steps. They were six pages of steps. And let me tell you, those little cartoon men make it look so simple, but by step two, I was already questioning everything I thought I knew about geometry and physics.
The screws? They didn’t match. The holes? Slightly off-center. The diagrams? Confusing, like a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces are the same color. My first attempt at building the frame resulted in a structure so crooked that it looked like it belonged in a modern art museum. I took it apart and started again. The Allen key became my sworn enemy, mocking me with every awkward twist and slip.
By hour two, my wife—who was supposed to be “helping”—had taken a seat on the couch, watching me like I was the entertainment for the evening. Every so often, she’d pop her head up and ask, “How’s it going?” which is code for, “You’re struggling, aren’t you?” It took all my self-control not to throw the Allen key out the window and follow it.
Somewhere around step five, things took a darker turn. I had successfully assembled what I thought was a drawer, but when I tried to slide it into the frame, it got stuck halfway. I gave it a little nudge—nothing. A harder push—still nothing. That’s when I realized I had somehow managed to make two left-side drawers. I stared at the dresser in disbelief. How was that even possible? IKEA had outsmarted me at every turn.
At this point, my sanity was hanging by a thread. I found myself talking to the dresser, pleading with it to just work. “Come on, mate. We’ve been through a lot together. Just slide in. Please.” No response from the dresser, obviously. But my wife was now laughing from the couch, thoroughly enjoying my descent into madness.
After what felt like a lifetime, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. The dresser was standing—slightly crooked, with drawers that didn’t quite line up, but standing nonetheless. The sense of accomplishment I felt was fleeting. As I wiped the sweat from my brow, my wife approached, inspecting the result like a foreman on a construction site. She gave me that patronizing smile—the one that says, “Good job, but…” And then came the kicker: “Did you use all the screws?”
I looked down at the coffee table, where a handful of screws still sat. They were extra. Had to be. Right? IKEA always gives you extras… I hope.
From that day forward, I made a vow: no more flat-pack furniture. If we need something new, it’s either coming pre-assembled or we’re paying someone to do it. As far as I’m concerned, IKEA won the battle that day. But next time, I’ll be ready. Or, you know, I’ll just throw a blanket over some milk crates and call it minimalist chic.