Dear Ikea,

Though I once loved you with the pure and starry-eyed love of a twenty-something attempting to furnish an entire apartment for under $1500, as someone now older and wiser, I bow to your evil Swedish genius. Your vast store, whose physical layout funnels docile crowds of shoppers through dozens of living rooms, dining rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, and offices all crammed to the gills with rainbows of color and items large and small, has an even greater power than Costco to overwhelm my senses and stun me into simple-minded submission. The sheer number and variety of items available at bargain prices puts Target to shame in their ability to make me purchase numerous cheap and flimsy items that I have no need for, had no intention of shopping for when I entered the store, and will most likely never use. You have the power to make me say, “Excuse me, sir, but do you have any more of the Ekvars?” with a perfectly straight face, and listen to the response of “No, but we do have the Bukts, which are very similar” with solemn attentiveness. And even though I hate those giant plastic yellow bags that seem constantly on the verge of spilling out their entire contents onto the floor, I still pick one up and sling it over my shoulder at the beginning of my journey like every other Ikea shopper going up the escalator.

When I finally reach the home stretch, where I can actually see sunlight coming through the exit doors, what do you do, Ikea? You offer a fresh assault with bins of tea lights, pot holders, picture frames, light bulbs, spatulas, patterned napkins, and stuffed hybrid animals, and I cannot resist. You even make me bag my own purchases and feel that I would be a terrible elitist if I expected someone else—like an employee—to do that for me. Then, when I am tired and hungry since, after all, I’ve now been in the store for over two hours and hefted around my own heavy furniture items, you flaunt your food court, located right between the checkout lines and the exit doors. Sure, I can resist those meatballs, and even the soft serve, which isn’t easy with the little boy in the line next to me screeching, “I want ice-cream! I want ice-cream!” But I cannot resist the overwhelming smell of cinnamon rolls with their warm promise of sweet, melty deliciousness wafting overhead. And as if that weren’t enough, you distract me so thoroughly with the thought of cinnamon rolls that even though I’ve just purchased everything I came for plus fifteen extra items, I still take a 2009 catalog and don’t even notice until I’ve driven home that it’s in Spanish.

And so, Ikea, while I may not love you anymore, I do acknowledge your awesome power and hereby surrender. Go ahead, take my money and those hours of my life and laugh.