I’ve been a thrift-store shopper for a long, long time. Sure, for a while back in junior high I may have been a little squeamish about cast-off clothing, but then Molly Ringwald showed up and, well, you know, things changed.
Still…even after all these years of sorting through bargain bins and fingering overcrowded racks of soiled sportcoats, there are some varieties of thrifting I simply can’t endure: discount grocery stores, for example. You see, secondhand clothing can be cool: it’s like playing dress-up, like living the life of a complete stranger, literally walking in someone else’s shoes (though truth be told, I’ve never had much luck with thrift-store shoes, thanks to my very curious gait). Secondhand food, though, is so obviously a necessity. It lacks the style, the glitz, the personality of an abandoned seersucker suit or a discarded Pucci-print chemise. Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something unbearably depressing about buying canned yams manufactured by a third-tier co-op in rural Montana. It’s sad and lonely and reeks of poverty. It’s the food you’d eat as an illegal immigrant or if you were on the lam in Guatemala.
Just a thought–you know, in case any of you were already planning out your Chriskwaanzukkah presents or anything.
sturtle [dot] com 