Assembly required. Breakdown inevitable.

I’m probably what is considered a classic Type A personality: competitive, ambitious, aggressive, and a bit impatient.  When I set out to tackle a task, I push myself very hard, determined to accomplish my goal. And when someone tells me that something can’t or shouldn’t be done, well that just makes me want to conquer it even more.

This has been my mantra since I was very young. It has often worked to my advantage, especially career-wise; however, at times striving for success has nearly driven me to the brink of insanity. This past weekend was one of those times when sheer determination nearly broke me.

It all started with what should have been a fairly simple endeavor: furnish my freshly-painted, but rarely-used home office. It’s not a very big room, so all I thought if I found a desk that the rest would easily fall into place. Or so I thought. The quest for a desk wasn’t quite as simple as I planned because … (insert dramatic pause) … I bought it at IKEA.

For those who may not be familiar with the brand, IKEA is the world’s largest furniture retailer. It was founded in Sweden more than 60 years ago and now has 361 stores worldwide, including one in Stoughton. IKEA targets people who want high-concept, functional furniture at a low cost. The trade-off is that customers have to do a lot of work when they purchase the company’s modular furniture. IKEA doesn’t have sales people, but instead relies on a self-service model in its mammoth-sized store locations. Also, all items are unassembled and packaged in flat boxes with “assembly plans” (a.k.a. instructions) for customers to build at home.

And for those who are familiar with IKEA, I am sure you are already shaking your head and thinking: Why would she subject herself to such torment? Just refer back to my opening paragraph.

While I had never had any direct experience with their products or shopping their stores, I had read and heard countless horror stories recounting IKEA experiences: Hours spent wandering through the maze of aisles trying to locate a bookcase or shelving unit with Swedish names like Gnedby or Brusali, followed by several hours fighting with family and loved ones while trying to construct the pieces at home. And then there is the quality issue. Their pieces are not built to last.  But let’s face it, when you shop at IKEA, you get what you pay for. 

Despite knowing this, I believed that I could conquer the Swedish giant, starting with their Hemnes desk in white stain. It appeared to have all the qualities I was looking for: a flat top to place a monitor, a cabinet to hide a PC tower, and a few drawers to stash supplies. Sure, it was constructed of something called “fiberboard,” but for only $279 it was priced right for a desk that might get used once a month.

The first tactic in my strategy to conquer IKEA was to avoid ever stepping inside one of their stores. I opted to have the desk shipped my doorstep. The $139 shipping fee would not only save me a 60-mile drive to Stoughton and back, but it also would preserve my relationship with whomever I would have enlisted to take the trip with me. So even with the Hemnes desk now costing me $418, I still felt that I had scored a great deal.

My purchase arrived in less than a week in two boxes: one large and flat, the other midsized. Even after opening the boxes, I was confident that I had the situation under control.

After laying out all of the hardware (hundreds of dowels, screws, bolts and fasteners) alongside the fiberboard pieces, I opened the 38-page instruction booklet only to find that there was not a single word printed inside -- only cartoon illustrations to guide me through the process. I took a deep breath and put my iTunes radio on shuffle mode to provide some background music while I set out to construct a modular masterpiece. Ironically, The Rolling Stones’ 19th Nervous Breakdown was the first song to play. I should have seen it as a sign of what was to come.

Over the next several hours I worked to decipher the cartoons and was able to assemble the majority of the desk’s base. And then, something went horribly awry. After fastening two boards together I realized that one of the pieces was facing the wrong direction. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, but the nuts holding them together wouldn’t budge. I struggled with them for over an hour before calling a friend who in a former life sold industrial hardware. I explained my dilemma and sent him a photo of the pieces. He identified them as Titus Series 5 RTA nuts and offered to come by the next morning to loosen them. As much as I hated to do it, I recognized Rome wasn’t build in a day and neither would a desk from Stockholm.

I threw in the towel for the night.

My friend arrived early Sunday morning to pick up where I left off and immediately ran into the same issue I did -- the nuts would not budge. He too tried for an hour to loosen them. Seemingly more frustrated at me for buying a build-it-yourself desk than at himself for not being able to crack the IKEA code, he lashed out.

“You are a CEO. Why are you buying a cardboard desk that comes in pieces?” he asked. I tried to justify my decision by explaining that I run a local daily newspaper, not a Fortune 500 company. He didn’t accept my excuse and added: “This desk is made of newspaper. You’re better than this. Throw it away.”

He then convinced me that I could still use the pieces even though they were facing the wrong direction, helped me attach them and went on his way. I was left sitting in a pile of parts. Hundreds of unidentifiable remaining parts. 

Determined to not be defeated I went back to instructions, which were now starting to look more like a roadmap through Dante’s nine circles of hell than a how-to guide on assembling a desk. Nevertheless, I was able to piece together the drawers. Getting them into the actual desk … well, that’s another story.

Nothing lined up. The pre-drilled holes didn’t align with the holes in the tracks for drawers to slide into. And as I tried to manipulate the pieces, the rest of the desk appeared to be coming apart (except for the Titus Series 5 RTA nuts -- because they’re clearly never budging). After forcing the tracks to fit, the drawers did not sit straight like in their cartoon depiction.

Thirty-six hours passed and I was beyond frustrated. I was so angry at myself for buying this desk that my anger had grown far beyond just IKEA, but I was mad at every product of Sweden -- Swedish meatballs, Swedish Fish, Volvos and even ‘70s pop group ABBA. I decided that after this experience, I was boycotting them all.

I believed the desk was taunting me. Its pile of parts seemed to growing even larger. Where were all of these pieces supposed to go? And why wouldn’t it stand level? Now convinced that not even MacGyver could piece this desk together, I took to the internet for salvation. With a single Facebook status update, I conceded in my battle with the Swedish monster.

“Does anyone want a brand new, half-assembled, half still-in-the-box white IKEA Hemnes desk? The only thing I want in exchange is for it to be taken out of my sight immediately. I'm totally serious,” I wrote.

While I got an immediate taker, she has yet to follow through with arranging a pick up. My guess is that the photos I included scared her off. I offered to donate it to The Item newsroom, though this column may dissuade them from accepting it.

And as for the money I “saved” going with a low-cost, do-it-yourself piece of furniture, I just blew that times four in a single trip to an upscale furniture chain store in Lynnfield. The upside: They’ll not only deliver, but also assemble the new desk. I double checked.

It’s probably where I should have gone in the first place, but now I will at least get what I paid for. A desk. Not a Swedish fiberboard jigsaw puzzle.