I remember when I was little telling my mother that grownups never had any fun. My mother told me that when you are grown, you think different things are fun. I have found there’s no one point when you cross the line, but life subtly shifts, like one of those revolving restaurants. Without seeming to have moved at all, you are suddenly facing a different view.
When we moved into our home four years ago, I had never been to a garage sale, never had a garage sale, and would not have dreamt of stepping into a thrift store without a biohazard suit. Used stuff is for the truly indigent, right? Right? And it’s gross. Who knows where it’s been.
Well, it all started that first year in our new house with the annual neighborhood garage sale. The event is advertised, and about 40 families participate. A neighborhood tradition, we were told. Since we had small children and were always purging what we had outgrown, it seemed like a prime opportunity to clean up a bit and maybe make a few bucks in the bargain.
From there I started “purging” periodically on eBay. Hmmm…maybe I could “purge” somebody else’s stuff. Nice stuff, you know. Maybe some antiques or something. So it was one small step to estate sales. Interesting, and, well, yes, “fun”. So I started getting interested in old used stuff that other people might pay for. Some call it collectibles, some call it vintage, some call it antiques. (I think you start becoming interested in vintage about the time your age qualifies you as vintage.)
Of course, where do you find other peoples old junk, er, collectibles? Why at their homes! Hence, the descent into garage sales. But not everybody holds a garage sale to get rid of old junk, er, vintage items. Many people donate to charity. Where do those things go? To the poor? Oh no, they are sold and the money is used to help others. And of course, this crap, er, treasure, is sold at thrift stores.
Now I have completely descended into OPJ (Other People’s Junk) hell.
As often happens in hell, I met another little devil more clever than I who pulled me even farther into the abyss. Her name is Pati. Oh, she’s good. Pati and I spent last Mother’s Day driving around a trailer park in my minivan hoping to buy somebody else’s junk. We had trouble finding the right trailer, but the sign had pointed this way! At last we found the right place. It looked like we had arrived too late, but no moss grows on Pati!
“Hey, they might be willing to sell the leftover stuff cheap!” She jumped out and knocked on the door.
I heard a pleasant sounding conversation before she hopped back in and reported that they would be holding another estate sale soon. “So where should we go now? Salvation Army?”
I walk into a thrift store and am overwhelmed by the amount of useless crap. In two seconds I can tell you if there is anything worthwhile to be had. Ah, such naiveté. Pati can pick up a scent and follow it like a bloodhound. At St. Vincent de Paul, as I was ready to dismiss the entire load, Pati suddenly disappeared under a table. I heard banging and crashing as she scavenged for her treasure, her feet barely visible beyond the edge of the table. “Are you OK in there?” I called. Should I send for help?
In a minute she emerged triumphant, brushed the dust bunnies from her cheeks, and proudly held aloft the ugliest little bowls I’ve ever seen.
“See these?” she said. “People love these! They’re collectible!”
On our way to the Hospice Thrift Store later, I saw a crow pecking at a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. “See that crow?” I said. “That reminds me of you.” She blushed and tried not to look flattered.
Yes, I have a fast growing problem, and my friend Pati is an enabler. We are addicted to OPJ. Why is somebody else’s junk more desirable than our own? Because when it’s somebody else’s old stuff, it’s collectible. When it’s yours, it’s just clutter. I suppose it’s a relatively harmless habit, but it is scary. We rode in a minivan around a trailer park hoping to buy somebody else’s junk. And it was fun. What’s next? Dumpster diving?