Marriages are like IKEA furniture. You spend many a Saturday finding the one that’s just the right blend of character and comfort. The one that is most you. Then you take the plunge and bring it home.
After an epic bout of cussing, hammering and Twister-esque bending to make mismatched holes and poles align, you ride high on pride, accomplishment and various shades of smug. You marvel at your creation. Unique. Non-conforming (manuals are for sissies). Yours.
You have overcome the worst.
Except, you’re not in college anymore. You’re stuck with it, after finals, after the holidays, after the sexy new 2017 catalog with sleek lines and modern finishes is out. You watch as your creation disintegrates under the harshness of the sun, the monsoons and mould.
Through the years, it has become a collection of memories in the form of pee stains and wine spills — relics of failed parenting and failed escapes.
The times you spent plopped upon it, ignoring it, all the while immersed in your Facebook feed, has left a permanent impression on it. Like sagging butt-cheeks, the damage cannot be undone.
Marriages are like IKEA furniture. They are not meant to last forever.