If your relationship is ever on the rocks, don’t go to Ikea.

My relationship isn’t on the rocks (and thank God for that because I’d have to give up drinking to afford my rent by myself, say what?), but I have what some people call a vivid imagination and what other people call delusions. It all depends on whether or not you have a PhD in psychology, I guess.

Anyway, when I went to Ikea a few months ago with my boyfriend, I started thinking and I realized that Ikea is a fucking landmine for relationships if there ever was one.

The worst part is that it seems totally harmless, so you have no idea that your relationship is about to go down in flames. At 2 p.m., you’re just a girl who wants a plastic computer chair and some mass-produced wall art. By 3:45, you’re single and you have no idea who you are anymore, or who anyone is, for that matter.

Let’s say you’re shopping with a guy you started dating recently, and, I don’t know, let’s throw in some detail — maybe your family has been beseeching you to give them grandchildren lately, or you’ve convinced yourself that you better be totally into him because there are no more eligible bachelors left on OKCupid, or both, or maybe he’s just really rich — whatever it is, he better be The One, right? But then, when you’re forced to walk through the children’s section to score some meatballs (which is actually the only thing Ikea is good for, and I think you’ll agree with me if you’ve ever owned the Klobo loveseat or any variety of particle board furnishing), you both start to think that maybe you’ll eventually wind up back here someday, maybe with each other. And a kid. Your kid. This is all happening so fast. And it could be great, except…

You start to notice this weird bump in his nose, and his teeth are actually kind of the opposite of straight. Great. So your kid is going to need rhinoplasty and braces and a few years of therapy after being raised by you. Why even bother having him? Why even bother with anything?

Or maybe you’re with your significant other, the one you’ve been with for the long haul, the one you know better than you know yourself (or whatever you tell yourself at night to justify all the time you’re about to realize you’ve wasted). Anyway, all you need is a new coffee table and your new apartment will be complete. As you scan the room, you finally see it — the perfect coffee table that you just know he’s going to love. And when you look up, you see that he’s already maneuvering himself right to the table. See? Soulmates.

Visions of entertaining a roomful of friends around the said table while you pour them glass after glass of Petite Sirah play out in your mind, even though you don’t really have any friends and you can’t quite remember if Petite Sirah is white or red. Regardless, it’s going to be great. And then he says it: “What a hideous table.” Before you can recover, he heads over to another table, one you would never consider even if it was free on Craigslist, and says knowingly, “Well. I think we’ve found it.”

And it’s not even about the table, something he’ll never understand. It’s about what the table represents. It represents the fact that you don’t even know each other. And if you have such different taste in something like a stupid table, how are you supposed to ever agree on anything? Ever? Before you know it, it’s over like Hilary Duff’s career.

And God help you if you set foot in Pottery Barn and realize how poor you actually are.