Who'd want this?
Ken and I have been going through every single nook and cranny in our house in order to find items we no longer need or should keep so we can clear it out before our move. Our rule is one that everybody's heard: "If you haven't used it in a year, and you have no future plans for it (i.e., saving it for your children), throw it out." Tough rule, but it's resulted in a mega pile of stuff so far compared to the piddly pile we had a few years ago when we attempted a yard sale, foolishly, wasting our time.
We have pulled out old Barbie dolls, GI Joes, records, diaries, school notebooks, college dormitory bedspreads, toothbrush cups, and even halloween costumes. Why, oh why, has so much of this useless muck followed us this far? I am ashamed to admit that there are actually boxes in our attic still taped up, all of which is junk we haven't laid eyes on (much less given a thought to) since our first move in 2001. We are both sentamentalists, and we're both packrats.
We wonder which items to toss into the trash pile, and which ones to try to sell. "Ken, nobody's gonna want that 1976 toilet lid cover," I might remark. "Yes, they will, if somebody's dumb enough to pay money for your no-armed, no-legged, permanent-penned Barbie." He looks at it a second time. "Actually, that's not even a real Barbie. That's a cheap imitation." (Names and objects have been changed for literary humor and to respect the privacy of said objects. This is merely an overexaggeration of our pursuits.)
All that to say, one man's trash truly is another man's treasure. My friends stare wide-eyed at me whenever we go yard saleing together. I might get an elevated blood pressure when I spot something like a lonely three-hole punch sitting underneath a table. You'd think I would have just found a buried safe straight from Fort Knox, the way I rush over to it and cling it to my chest in victory. It's all about the thrill of finally finding something you've been looking for, and finding it at a bargain.
So maybe somebody will indeed come along and buy my half-empty boxes of acrylic nails from high school. Or that Diaper Depot. We'll just have to wait and see.
We have pulled out old Barbie dolls, GI Joes, records, diaries, school notebooks, college dormitory bedspreads, toothbrush cups, and even halloween costumes. Why, oh why, has so much of this useless muck followed us this far? I am ashamed to admit that there are actually boxes in our attic still taped up, all of which is junk we haven't laid eyes on (much less given a thought to) since our first move in 2001. We are both sentamentalists, and we're both packrats.
We wonder which items to toss into the trash pile, and which ones to try to sell. "Ken, nobody's gonna want that 1976 toilet lid cover," I might remark. "Yes, they will, if somebody's dumb enough to pay money for your no-armed, no-legged, permanent-penned Barbie." He looks at it a second time. "Actually, that's not even a real Barbie. That's a cheap imitation." (Names and objects have been changed for literary humor and to respect the privacy of said objects. This is merely an overexaggeration of our pursuits.)
All that to say, one man's trash truly is another man's treasure. My friends stare wide-eyed at me whenever we go yard saleing together. I might get an elevated blood pressure when I spot something like a lonely three-hole punch sitting underneath a table. You'd think I would have just found a buried safe straight from Fort Knox, the way I rush over to it and cling it to my chest in victory. It's all about the thrill of finally finding something you've been looking for, and finding it at a bargain.
So maybe somebody will indeed come along and buy my half-empty boxes of acrylic nails from high school. Or that Diaper Depot. We'll just have to wait and see.
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