There’s a woman I’ve met only three times in my life. She’s the younger sister of my husband’s older brother’s wife.
The first time we met, she glanced around my home and said,
“There’s no furniture in here,”
as if we were living in some shabby, pitiful way.
Many years later, I saw her again. She asked,
“Do you still live in that place?”
It sounded like she still remembered my home with no proper furniture—like she couldn’t believe I still lived there.
The third time we met was at the airport, at the boarding gate.
“I’m flying first class, so excuse me,”
she said, then turned left toward the first-class cabin.
I was hoping we could chat during the long flight to Seoul, but instead, I quietly turned right toward economy. We’ll probably never meet again—my sister-in-law has passed away. I’ve only seen her three times, but when I think about her, I can’t help but laugh a little bitterly.
Even now, our home still looks the same as when she and my sister-in-law first visited—no sofa, and very bare. Is there anyone who dislikes shopping as much as I do? I get a headache just imagining piles of things becoming trash.
Last October, I looked around my apartment and suddenly wanted to throw out almost everything I owned. I felt no attachment. I started by painting the entryway a warm, yellow chick color, then began decluttering. Instead of wasting time and energy cleaning old household items, I decided to replace them all with new ones.
I love IKEA products. The simple design and colors suit me. And the prices are good enough that I don’t feel bad throwing something away when it’s worn out. Even my interior designer friends admire IKEA.
But when I finally decided to buy new furniture, every IKEA near me—six stores—was sold out of what I wanted. Even after waiting three months, the items didn’t come back in stock. I gave up and just bought a few things from what they had in the store.
Replacing all my household items wasn’t easy. Every time I brought something home, I realized I had forgotten something and had to go back again. I struggled to read the assembly instructions with tired eyes. Taking apart the old furniture, unscrewing and discarding the pieces, wasn’t simple either. I thought,
“I won’t be able to do this when I get older.”
So I told myself to stop buying. But somehow, I kept going back to IKEA. Now I understand why people say shopping can be addictive.
I left snowy-looking New York and crossed the river to IKEA in Paramus, New Jersey—starting the new year off busy with this kind of shopping trip.