I grew up shopping in thrift stores. Yeah, yeah...Now that vintage is a buzzword, didn't everybody...
Don't give me that bullshit.
Ask my mum- she taught us the glories of second hand. Even as a young kid, in spite of occasional sneers from my peers, and socio-economic slurs, the concept of getting a handful of treasures that no one had ever seen before for the same amount of money as one shirt that three people I know already own, made sense to me. And it was more fun. I was never a fashion plate growing up (and that is a severe understatement), but at least it gave me the freedom to experiment with styles and decorating without going broke, and without blending in too much. Because I was shy. And the only way anyone was ever going to remember me was because of how ridiculous I looked.
The financial part is great, obviously, but truly, I love the thrill of the hunt- Neolithic woman love berry picking. Grunt. I touch almost every item. If the colour isn't quite right, maybe the phenomenal texture will make up for it. If I can't use it in it's current form, or if it has seen better days, could I repurpose it? I love finding neat things. Old things. Even basic things. House things. Books. Things I remember my great grandma having. It makes my day to find something I will use. Something I'm going to give new life to, and save from the junk heap.
I understand the universal appeal of the thrift. It's been a huge part of my life, not just as a purchasing entity, but almost as a lifestyle choice. I prefer to find things second hand. 'New' makes me a little bit uncomfortable most of the time. I like a bit of dirt, a bit of dust, a bit of wear on things. Second hand items are often made better, and their continued functionality in spite of age are a testament to that. I also seem to have a somewhat anachronistic figure (or perhaps taste...), and the clothes of yesteryear tend to fit that little bit better. I'm sure I'm not alone in any of this. I mean, what's not to love? I guess it was only a matter of time before someone began to capitalize on that love by preying on 'our' collective inherent laziness.
The whole thing has taken a greedy and frivolous turn. It's not personal anymore.
Nowadays, it seems that every kid with a fashion or design magazine is opening up an online store or flea market booth showcasing "vintage" and "retro" items. Marking them up, even while the Value Village price tags are still stuck to the bottom.
Obsessive collectors? Well, sure....I can handle that a bit more easily...You buy too much, then have to finance your addiction, so you flip some choice items. Honey, that's a compulsion that has it's own set of issues, so I'll leave you out of this for now...Even lifestyle thrift stores kind of fall into this categories. The owners live it- they aren't just out to make a quick buck. I'm not talking about estate sales, and grandmas and grandpas clearing out their attics either- no middle man is involved there. It's the people that I know are doing nothing more than scoping out trends, and buying up stuff they have no intention of loving or displaying themselves that are starting to incur my wrath. You are, essentially, as useless and loathsome as middle management dollar jockeys.
When I buy something, I picture where it will go in my house, what I will use it for, what I will wear it with, or just how much I'm going to enjoy it. I don't see dollar signs.
The aforementioned Value Village price tag incident? A set of 3 beautiful bowls- Pyrex, gooseberry print, not by any means in mint condition, scuffs and a bit of missing print- marked $40. VV price- $6.99. Almost a 600% mark-up. You must have serious delusions of grandeur if you believe your "time" plundering is worth that money. Let me guess- you fancy yourself a "stylist"? Took a graphic design course once? Are a part time make-up artist? Dropped out of fashion school when you realized sewing was too hard, and you'd rather just read magazines?
Ugh.
Another brand of thrift store thief I've been encountering more and more is the ironic jock hipster. "Hyuk hyuk. This statue is retarded. I fuckin' want it." You asshole- I actually really like that pretty chalkware bird statue. I would place it lovingly amongst my stuff, and dust him, and name him. I can't help but smile apologetically at the little figurine, knowing what fate holds in store for him- certain death after the first kegger.
A recent trip saw some obnoxious trust fund douche who, between outbursts of "this place fuckin' stinks" (met, of course, by mean girl titters from his female shopping companion who refused to touch anything), picked up a beautiful (BEAUTIFUL) snap front, embroidered western shirt (it was rusty orange with horseshoes and red roses!), and exclaimed- I shit you not- "I'm fuckin' wearing this to the steers and queers party with those short shorts."
FUUUUUUUCK YOU.
That shirt is going to be the last thing some teenaged sorority girl remembers before she contracts her first STD, and then it will probably end up in a dumpster by dawn. She will probably develop some Pavlovian response to snap fronts, and will never be able to look a cute rockabilly boy (who isn't, you know, prone to date rape) in the eye because of the incident. You are a small man (not only in stature), and that would have fit me perfectly. And I would have ironed it, and taken care of it, and worn it for serious, yo.
Y'all are vultures. And thieves.
