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Confessions of a Thrift Store Addict (reformed)



The best time is early morning, when they are still bringing out yesterday’s donations from the back.  “By the pound” stores are the most fun, - as well as the most dangerous - as the lady next to you slides under your arm and agressively hip bumps you out of the way to snatch a likely looking gem.  Being tall and long armed is an advantage, as you can reach over the heads of shorter rummagers to the middle of the box.  Getting in next to the person who is obviously specializing in stuffed animals is a good tactic, as he/she will take care of the heavier work of flipping things over in their search for the unstained and only lightly battered Care Bear or Pokémon figure. Having a good eye is all important: if you can spot the item that is made of fine wood, that is obviously old or that has some distinctive aspect before anyone else, you can grab it, throw it in your cart and later review it with greater care. Try to stay ahead of the “professionals” – those thrift shore shoppers who stand out because they are better dressed, cleaner shaven or better smelling.  You can also spot them by the rapidness with which they whip out their cell phones and scan the internet for the price and rarity of a particular item.

Yes, I was an addict.  I found it impossible to pass by a Goodwill, Salvation Army, Re-Store or any of the multitude of shops selling second-hand, donated goods.  I would break out in a cold sweat at the thought of what unusual or possibly valuable thing might be waiting at the back of a lower shelf or buried underneath a broken baby carriage, overlooked or undervalued by other, less astute shoppers.  My hands would shake as I envisioned the classic hand puppet, the unusual kitchen tool, the slightly scratched picture frame or the antique tool that was waiting for me.   There was a period when I tried to justify my addiction by pretending it was a business:  I would scour the shops during the week and then on Saturday or Sunday rent a table alongside used clothing, hunting gear, wholesale kitchenware, tacos, and garden tool vendors to re-sell my Thrift Store finds for a slight profit – most often as not just enough to support my habit during the coming week.  There were even the occasional super-highs when something really valuable would get by the crafty pre-examination of donations by the Thrift Store employees – those ruthless pushers who would give you just enough a good time to keep you coming back.  I once grabbed an interesting looking stop watch seconds before it was snatched out of the bottom of a recently arrived shopping cart.  It had a $2.00 price tag.  I took it home, examined it more closely, googled it and found out it was a precision 7-jeweled Heuer-Sebring stop watch that was manufactured in the 1960s for exclusive use in Formula One race cars.  I auctioned it off for $1,300 on EBay.  There were other finds, such as a glass paperweight from a late 1800s World Fair, an old illustrated Spice Rack, etc:  just enough to make me believe that I was one smart junkie.

Of, course, the real result of my Thrift Store addiction was the accumulation of too much stuff:  Art and photography books tumbling off overloaded shelf space into cardboard boxes; classic puppets, marionettes and cartoon figures fighting for space on top of cabinets and coffee tables; hand painted porcelain figures.  Not necessarily a BAD thing, unless, like me, you move around a lot.  A day of reckoning finally occurred and I had to dry myself out - get on the wagon.  For me it was a three-step rehabilitation program:  Step one was to reluctantly put everything into a storage locker the last time I moved.  Step Two was to get tired of paying a monthly storage fee and finally get rid of just about EVERYTHING that I accumulated during my years of Thrifty addiction (ironically, much went back to a Thrift Store).  Step three?  Well, Step Three has been somewhat easier:  simply live somewhere that there are no Thrift Stores.  Sort of like getting an unlisted number, blowing off all your old junkie friends and putting a mental slap on your hand any time you reach for the drug (or the entrance door of a shop).

And they say opiodes are a problem?

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