These Clothes Worked For Me
The clothes I am talking about are the clothes I packed up into a big trashbag a few days ago in a delusional moment when I actually thought I could get some money for my styly duds at the local Buffalo Exchange.
For those not in the know or too rich to thrift, the BE is a consignment shop where you can actually take your old shit in, and they pay you for it, or give you store credit so you can turn around and buy someone else's old shit and make it your new shit and think you're the shit. Get it?
It's a hipster thrift store.
So since I can barely keep the lights on in this stupid apartment I decide to pack up a bag with clothes that I don't wear but that are PERFECTLY acceptable and trendy articles, and take them down to exchange them in for a full-scale shopping spree.
I was greeted by one of the stores stripe-tighted buffalo exchangers at the BUY counter. She faked a smile as she eyed first me, then my Hefty bag. And even though the store had just opened and I was the first and only customer within a 2 mile radius, she seemed to have a lot of things she wanted to do other than stand there and explain the deal to me. Like maybe staple her eyelids to her forehead.
"Ok here's the deal," she huffed as she hiked up her tights. "We look at what you have, and if you have something we CAN SELL we put a retail price on it and you get 20 percent."
Eye roll or not, this sounded like a fabulous deal.
However, that IF sort of sailed up between us and drifted over to my garbage bag of goodies where it sat atop my awesome old red boots, crossed its legs, and cocked its head at me.
It was a saucy god damned if.
"Sounds excellent! I'll just be over here if you need me," I beamed fashionably as I hid in a rack of slouchy handbags for a good three wilting minutes.
But this wiafish arm-warmer-clad twit of a fashionista was not going to win this little battle of cool. I had seen what I had stashed in the bag.
The twit had not.
But then... unfortunately, she had.
Not two minutes later she tapped my back as I stood pawing through yards and yards of polyester and demin skirts, sifting for my size. From the weight and sarcasm of the tap, I knew things were not looking as good as I had hoped.Turning to face her I saw the satanic IF sat perched atop her left shoulder, chuckling merrily.
"Well, we can't take any of your stuff."
Now if the conversation had simply ended there I would have walked out wounded but with my esteem still hangnig in there. Bruised, but steadfast all the same.
The conversation, however, did not end there. It started going so far south I started hearing bando music in the distance.
Waving good-bye to what was left of my sense of self-worth I listened to her chirp away, "We usually like to buy things that people want. You know. Stylish things. Things that have come out in the past 5 or six months. None of your stuff fits that criteria."
I had officially been hip-slapped by the twit-let.
Standing there, alone, with an arm-full of now expensive-to-me new old outfits that I would have to cough up actual money to pay for, I felt betrayed and abandoned by my clothing. They had lied to me. They had told me, when I bought them....ten years ago....that they would make me pretty and funky and spirited. That they had intrinsic worth. That they would live forever. They did not tell me that they had a shelf life and would inevitably betray me and shame me in the face of a Hollywood fashion maven.
They had told me I was cool.
The liars.
For those not in the know or too rich to thrift, the BE is a consignment shop where you can actually take your old shit in, and they pay you for it, or give you store credit so you can turn around and buy someone else's old shit and make it your new shit and think you're the shit. Get it?
It's a hipster thrift store.
So since I can barely keep the lights on in this stupid apartment I decide to pack up a bag with clothes that I don't wear but that are PERFECTLY acceptable and trendy articles, and take them down to exchange them in for a full-scale shopping spree.
I was greeted by one of the stores stripe-tighted buffalo exchangers at the BUY counter. She faked a smile as she eyed first me, then my Hefty bag. And even though the store had just opened and I was the first and only customer within a 2 mile radius, she seemed to have a lot of things she wanted to do other than stand there and explain the deal to me. Like maybe staple her eyelids to her forehead.
"Ok here's the deal," she huffed as she hiked up her tights. "We look at what you have, and if you have something we CAN SELL we put a retail price on it and you get 20 percent."
Eye roll or not, this sounded like a fabulous deal.
However, that IF sort of sailed up between us and drifted over to my garbage bag of goodies where it sat atop my awesome old red boots, crossed its legs, and cocked its head at me.
It was a saucy god damned if.
"Sounds excellent! I'll just be over here if you need me," I beamed fashionably as I hid in a rack of slouchy handbags for a good three wilting minutes.
But this wiafish arm-warmer-clad twit of a fashionista was not going to win this little battle of cool. I had seen what I had stashed in the bag.
The twit had not.
But then... unfortunately, she had.
Not two minutes later she tapped my back as I stood pawing through yards and yards of polyester and demin skirts, sifting for my size. From the weight and sarcasm of the tap, I knew things were not looking as good as I had hoped.Turning to face her I saw the satanic IF sat perched atop her left shoulder, chuckling merrily.
"Well, we can't take any of your stuff."
Now if the conversation had simply ended there I would have walked out wounded but with my esteem still hangnig in there. Bruised, but steadfast all the same.
The conversation, however, did not end there. It started going so far south I started hearing bando music in the distance.
Waving good-bye to what was left of my sense of self-worth I listened to her chirp away, "We usually like to buy things that people want. You know. Stylish things. Things that have come out in the past 5 or six months. None of your stuff fits that criteria."
I had officially been hip-slapped by the twit-let.
Standing there, alone, with an arm-full of now expensive-to-me new old outfits that I would have to cough up actual money to pay for, I felt betrayed and abandoned by my clothing. They had lied to me. They had told me, when I bought them....ten years ago....that they would make me pretty and funky and spirited. That they had intrinsic worth. That they would live forever. They did not tell me that they had a shelf life and would inevitably betray me and shame me in the face of a Hollywood fashion maven.
They had told me I was cool.
The liars.
posted by Tara Callahan at 9:40 PM
1 Comments:
I have SOOOO been there. Once I was actually told that my clothes were "VINTAGE" (ok, maybe SOME of them were 5 years old) and that she didn't know of any store that bought VINTAGE clothes, but perhaps I would want to donate them. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Thrift stores these days don't seem to take anything unless you just bought it two weeks ago.
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