There is a place on Facebook—beyond the endless photos of newborn babies and your annoying friend from high school who updates her status exclusively in ALL CAPS—where something quite interesting is happening.
I grew up in my grandmother's house. You may have seen it — it's decorated in the same fashion as every other Italian grandmother-of-a-certain-age's house: French provincial furniture, salmon wall-to-wall carpet and custom-fitted plastic on the couch. The centerpiece is a television, housed in its own carved wood cabinet and given a place of honor, like a prized antique. I made fun of this decor growing up. Often. When I grew up, my house would never look like that. I would be unique! Different! I would have rustic hardwood floors and they would be intentionally scuffed!
Then I went to Ikea last weekend and realized life is a cruel joke, sitting on a plastic-wrapped couch.
Okay, maybe not a cruel joke, but if you ever thought you might be an individual, Ikea is the best place to remind you that you are absolutely not.