I have very little objection to shopping in thrift stores, other than the smell, disorganization, and cootie concerns. I’ve held off on buying new clothes until I lose weight, at which point, my present wardrobe will be in rags. I never understood why people would spend good money for distressed jeans. I like my jeans looking crisp and new, but my current pair is on Prozac.
Every time I think we’re getting a handle on our credit card balance, some new and expensive disaster arises … an abscessed tooth, car repairs, and most recently, canine phobias. I went out last week and ordered an area rug. “Area” is code for the size of a circus tent.
You see, my dog has developed a morbid fear of my hardwood floor. He stalls interminably when crossing from the rug to the hardwood. He gets trapped on the sofa, waiting for a spotter to help him stick the landing when dismounting. I can only guess that he must have slipped and hurt himself, since this only started two weeks ago.
I figured that if I got the ugliest rug they had, it wouldn’t set me back too badly. I looked at Astroturf and rugs that would make any sane person vomit on the spot. I finally settled on a simple pattern that would only cost as much as two years of visits to the nail salon. I don’t take great care of my personal appearance, but I prefer fingernails that don’t look like they’ve been chewed on by wolverines.
Clearly, something on my budget would have to give. Since my jeans now have butt ventilation, I’m going to have to start haunting the thrift stores. Women generally flock to size middle-aged spread like a hoard of locusts, leaving size zero and size Marlon Brando for the rest of us.
If you see me at the market and I’m wearing the clown pants that nobody else wanted, you’ll know why.