Domesticity

 

I bought furniture last night. I’m not much for nesting, but my apartment was barren enough I felt like some junkie flophouse squatter. I picked a agreeable little couch (with two companionable footstools), functional table, and two black lamps. I went to IKEA, not out any particular allegiance, rather it’s the only furniture type store that has permeated my awareness to any degree.

It was this huge washed out space, bland and ergonomic, full of blankly overwhelmed people trying to construct their lives. It wasn’t oppressive, exactly, but there was this enervating domesticity that leached out from the prefrab kitchens and bedspreads…it was discomfiting. I chose my couch because it was small, scrappy, and seemed as put upon at being there as I was. The rest  fit a discrete need and was easy to find. I hope to finish the rest of my decorating with curb leavings, like any decent person.     

 When I paid, the cashier asked for my postal code. I don’t actually know my postal code, but even if I did it seemed an arbitrary and invasive request: they don’t need to know who I am, and where I live, to sell me a couch. It’s not like I’m going to go on some loafing spree and the police will need the buyer information to track me down.I was already kinda skeeved out that Ikea knew what kind of couch I had (as  they, perhaps, could use that knowledge to reverse engineer my life from afar). I stonewalled the prying cashier and returned home with my purchases.

Now I need to reconcile my neat little furnishings with my rather messy life.