What Do You Mean It's Not a Sport?

This morning, as I walked along the beach behind the dog, I thought about thrifting. Oh, sure, I can get away with the "Gardening as Life" trope from time to time - but how do I get to thinking about thrifting as a sport while following a wet, waddling Molly?

"Marla," you say, "This is intriguing, and I've often thought of this myself. But I'm curious - how are you going to get there from here? Do tell."

It happened because I was feeling both ashamed and proud of myself. This morning I drove Josephine to daycare with Molly in tow, knowing that it was going to rain and that a good walk along the beach in the leash-free area would do us some good. There was no parking near the school along one street, so I continued south on the one-way street, planning to loop around through a laneway and park on the other side of the school, since there are two entrances. The laneway was closed off, so, no cutting though - I had to go around the whole block. And then I saw it there, near the end of the street -- a little mid-century side table in the trash. At first glance, it appeared that it was solid wood, it had a few stickers on it, and looked like something I could do something with. I felt a frisson. I'll admit - I wanted to screech to a halt, grab it, stow it in the trunk right away and ask questions later. Surely the fates had directed me to it, what with the parking situation and the closed laneway. It could always just end up in our trash, you know. But I behaved. I continued to drive well within the speed limit, parked safely and considerately on the next block, and sedately walked Josephine into school. I had flashes of inspiration - cute paint colours! A new mosaic or vintage tile top!  Perhaps mounting an old suitcase to it for additional height and storage! Then - quelle horreur! I heard the garbage truck coming just as we were getting buzzed in!

This is where it gets a bit embarrassing. I might have rushed the goodbyes a bit. Perhaps I gave eight kisses instead of ten. I vaguely recall an extra hug...but it gets a bit blurry after that. I'm sure I composed myself, fighting a rising sense of urgency, and walked calmly out of the building, though I may have sprinted to the car. I'm sure that if the caregivers saw anything, they took it for a rush to get somewhere, or perhaps just high spirits, if indeed I did; though I'd be mortified if they thought it was just because I was happy to have six hours to myself. But they know me...  There may have been the sound of a peel out, and the tires might have emanated the scent of  burning rubber. Perhaps I cursed a little when I got caught needing to make a left turn and the light at the end of the street was red. Maybe I crowed with triumph as I gained on the truck, thanking the apartment buildings on the street for their many bags of garbage requiring multiple trips for the guy on the back of the truck. I'm sure I even smiled at him, and waited almost leisurely while the truck completely blocked the street, knowing I'd still beat them to the table. I could afford to be patient, and I never once considered that someone else might have taken the table though my view of it was blocked by the truck, and my eyes were watering from the stench of garbage, so I couldn't see well anyway. As the truck pulled up a little, and I had room to pass, I mounted the sidewalk on two tires and pulled up next to the table, debating about whether to get out and put it in the trunk, or to pull it in through the car window much like those rescues where a cowboy pulls a fair maiden off the ground onto his running horse...

You'll notice there's no picture of a cute table posted yet? And you were wondering why I'm proud though I seem to be table-less?

It's because over the past twenty-mumble years of thrifting, I've learned a lot about the art and sport of finding finds, and more than that, I've learned a few things about myself. Most importantly, I've learned that I don't need everything I find, and I have learned how to walk away, sometimes.

That table was rough. It was solid wood, though it wasn't teak, which I could have revived pretty easily. It needed sanding, painting or staining, something done with a missing tile top and well, its good bones just weren't good enough for me upon that second glance. I have enough projects, including enjoying the great opportunity to write here. I don't need to take on more. While we do need a small coffee table, we don't really need a small side table. I travel, always, with a mental shopping list - said coffee table, a cabinet for towels, a small bookcase, an outdoor coffee table, a Steiff fawn...  Of course when you're thrifting, it's all about the timing and the object presenting itself and the impulse to acquire it even if you didn't know you needed it. Learning that the gift of giving myself time by not taking on projects, and walking away from them sometimes, is a huge part of my life as a thriftaholic.

And, you're wondering, I can tell. "Um, about the beach, Marla? Thrifting as a sport?"

Whenever I take Molly to the beach for a walk, I keep my eyes on the ground. Aside from the occasional piles of forgotten feces, there are plenty of things to look out for - like money and people's car keys. But I also look for beach glass - that softly opaque, smooth and pale beautiful stuff that looks so nice at the bottom of our fish tank with some marbles and unusual stones. The nice pieces go in the left pocket, the sharp pieces and rusty metal bits go in the right. Today, as has happened on other days, I cut myself a bit getting the bad stuff out of my pocket when I reached the trash by the gate.

As they say "It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt - then it's a sport."

"Ahem" you say. "Marla McWordypants? Thrifting as a sport? You're still talking about beach glass."

Well, it's all in the approach. You have to use all your senses. Some days I just have a "Spidey Sense" that there's good beach glass out there. It could be due to the weather, or the fact that more sand gets churned up on the weekends with a higher concentration of visitors. This was the case on Monday, where I found more than I did today. And it gets to a point where the rougher, boring rough white stuff isn't good enough any more. It doesn't satisfy the way others do - it's too easy. I want the cobalt blues, the soft aquas and the pure greens, and these days I leave behind more than I take. How does this relate to thrifting? Take, for example, cashmere sweaters. Once upon a time, I didn't know where to look, and used to have to check the labels to be sure when I thought I found something, and I was excited by every bit of cashmere found, no matter what colour, size or quality. I was Cashmere Hunter!  And I'd bring it home like a trophy. Within a short time I could just walk down an aisle of sweaters in a thrift shop and run my hands down the row, stopping when I touched one with even a small percentage of cashmere. And soon after, I learned to discriminate, and if it wasn't just right in terms of my every expanding strict criteria, it would stay there (though a good deal of it still followed me home, hoping to end up as part of a quilt, or a stuffed animal, or a patchwork scarf, or a million things I never made). Now I know that rummage sales at synagogues are a great place to find cashmere though there's a lot of beige and gray there, to make an awful sounding generalization based on years of experience. It's almost never at Value Villages, but there's one Goodwill in a crappy area of town where I've come across at least three good quality men's cashmere sweaters on different visits. The right kind of Estate Sales will have some, and there's a guy at the Sunday Antique Market who has a table full of nothing but, all priced around $25-35.  Now, well, I can kind of walk into a room and sense if triple-ply cashmere is even there, bypassing the cheap $39 short-fibre stuff altogether. And unless it fits, is a colour I'll wear and is something I'd buy at full price (if I had the full price), I don't take it home with me any more.

To expand on the finding beach glass is just like thrifting idea, just as I dressed for a walk along the beach today, wearing the crappy old Chucks and short jeans - you have to dress for good thrifting. You have to wear comfortable shoes, ones that are easy on and easy off. Skirts are great, voluminous ones preferred, because if there's no dressing room, you can pull stuff right on under them. Wearing a cami-style tank helps you try tops on without wasting precious time in a dressing room too. Just as you don't wear a snowsuit to pole-vault, you need to gear yourself for shopping. At least carry a tape measure and know your sizes, be it for cotton housedresses or white-painted bookcases.

You need to train your eye - just as I'm always scanning the sand two and three feet in front of me for beach glass, and know it's easier to find nice bits where it's slightly wet, I walk into a thrift store and stand at the door trying to scope out anything that looks like a Pucci print, a Vera scarf, a bit of diner china, a gorgeous old bouclé wool coat... I check the men's and children's sections even if I'm only looking for stuff for me, and I check all sizes, because while I'm not going to accuse employees of poor sorting skills or others of hiding things...sometimes things aren't where they should be. Today I found most of the beach glass we came home with in the grassy bits with milkweed pods where Molly goes to chase butterflies. When we go to Estate Sales on visits to my folks in Buffalo, I check out the places that put photos up on line a few days before, and plan my route accordingly. When I scan ads in papers for sales, I look for certain things. Medical equipment and bath seats = Good. They mean old people with old stuff. Toys and children's clothing = Bad. They mean frequent decluttering and limited expenditures on cool old junk, generally. I know that Goodwill stores have the occasional unannounced Monday madness sales, so I try to remember to check the website on Monday mornings. Planning people. It's key.  Just as athletes have to learn their techniques and tactics, and learn from coaches - so do thrifters. 

It takes preparation, as I've said, and training, and more. As I bend and swoop, trying to grab a fine piece of frosted amber loveliness while Molly ambles toward a spazzy Boston Terrier, I think of the times I found things under tables and smooshed in between unrelated items, having to dodge in and get a hand on them before someone mere feet away did. I think about how close to some disgusting rotting seaweed I'm willing to reach to get a piece of glass, just as I'm willing to brave some pretty stinky stores. I also think about how at one time, Steve had to hold me upside-down by the ankles so I could get to the bottom of a bin to grab more diner china at thirty cents per piece. That's the more - the mindset. The letting things find you, as much as you want to find them. After all, I'm only going to find beach glass at the beach, right?

Sometimes you're handicapped. Just as at the beach I might have to abandon a beautiful heart-shaped piece of cobalt beauty because the dog spotted a fine piece of ass to sniff a hundred yards away, near the one escape route from the fenced area, and she knows about it, and you've chased her for blocks before because of that - there have been times when a whiny kid means that vintage Ben Sherman top left behind because we couldn't make it through the checkout without a major meltdown will forever haunt you. It's great practice for knowing when you have to cut and run.

So, while the occasional potentially cute table might throw itself in my path like it did this morning - I think the most important part of finding great finds is putting yourself out there to find them, and being ready to do what it takes to get them when you do. I've sustained the odd papercut from my vintage greeting card collection. I got a fungus finding things in my parent's lock-up. I've been bumped and bruised by careless shoppers with overloaded thrift store shopping carts. That makes it a sport, officially.

Thrifting? I say it's not only a sport, it's a sport of Olympic proportions, and I'm in perpetual training to be the Captain of the team. At the very least, your Coach. Molly would happily be our team mascot, except for the fact that she's busy recovering from this morning's waddle, where due to my introspection we spent more time at the beach than usual, and so she has to hold down her chair as part of competing in her sport of choice, which is napping.

posted by Marla.

Comments

[deb]

the glass and puppy alone are enough to make me curl into a ball and weep for sheer love of beauty. but then you give us this story, and all of the adornments of details and the brick-a-brack of treasure hunting, and my weeping turns into a fiery storm of lust for next weekend's estate sale possibilities.

so glad you're here with us, Marla.

[Marla]

Please note: Puppy sleeping on vintage chair too! *keener*

[kittenpie]

It always pains me to leave behind good solid stuff, too, but sometimes it is just for the better. Like the nice chair I left last month because god knows we have no where to put one more mismatched chair, no matter how lovely, unless it is maybe a desk chair.

[crazymumma]

oooh! I run my hand along the racks as well. But you. Yes I know, you are the empress of vintage.

[Debbie]

i have to assume, based on context of "keener" from you and scarbiedoll, that it's the canuck equivalent to "nerdy."

yeah?

also, may i officially adopt it? and that puppy, along with that fabulous chair (i missed the details before when the photo was teeny, and then didn't pore over it enough after enlarging)? righteous.

[Marla]

Yes to all, including Molly, if you want her.

Keener is like, you're being super keen. Like your Arnold Horshack hand in the air going "Ooh! Oooh! Ooh!". Feel free to use it - I do, a lot. It's how I roll.

[Lisa b]

oh Team Captain. I 'm just a benchwarmer of shopping these days, never mind thrifting. glad I get to live vicariously through you though.