Thrift stores draw in customers from a broad range of socioeconomic backgrounds, but they appeal especially to bad housekeepers. I think this is partially because we understand and delight in their disorder– haphazard piles of wrinkly material, books that haven’t been opened in decades, old stuffed animals and records and roller blades and god knows what else. Aluminum Christmas ornaments. Crocheted potholders. Or, as I saw last week, a Justin Timberlake bobblehead doll.
The musty smell doesn’t phase us at all. We know that waiting under all the mounds of crap is a gem just for us, we are Indiana Jones whipping back waves of snakes and cockroaches to make it to that underground treasure hoard that is a mint condition sweeeet 70s sweater that hugs our curves and flattens our stomachs and makes all the Banana-Republic clad girls jealous.
And even if we don’t find that gem, it’s fun, just touching lots of old stuff.
I have friends who supplement their income by selling vintage clothes on ebay. Savvy girls who go out and find dresses from someone’s aunt’s attic that have been donated in Tennessee but that some girl (or guy) in New York or Japan or elsewhere would love to add to their hipster wardrobe.
And because that kind of entrepreneurial spirit is contagious, and because I’m unemployed, I’ve been keeping an eye on what is dropped off at the Salvation Army a five-minute walk from my house. Picked up a couple of things– crazy neon 80s sweater, slouchy Zodiac boots, zebra-print jacket.
But yesterday I had luck finding clothes for myself (I’m just not cool enough to pull off the edgier vintage styles, unfortunately). Clothes that I desperately needed for winter. An inventory:
2 Ann Taylor sweaters (gray and navy), 1 cream 100% cashmere sweater with boat neck, 1 lime green J. Crew turtleneck, 1 black-and-red diamond print vest, 1 black velvet blazer, 1 green sweater from NY&Co, a Members Only carry-on, 2 belts (one with whales on it and one wide brown leather) and my prize: a vintage bright red wool Mackintosh coat.
They were all beautiful, in like-new condition, just my size, and the final price? $37.
I was giddy. Feeling so happy at my luck, basically skipping back home with my bag on my arm, humming. Skipping and humming, that is, until I slid. Slid, and looked down to see WHY I had slid, to see a massive pile of dog poo that I had just skated through.
It brought me down a little, but not too much. Because if I can’t get all that dried nastiness scraped off my shoes, I’ll just hop down to the Salvation Army to see if I can rummage up a new pair.
