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Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Guest Post: When the going gets tough, the tough gets going ... to the thrift store.

I don't believe in ghosts or fairy tales, but I do believe in retail therapy.  And when the going gets tough, the tough gets the thrift store.
I had one of those weeks... The car broke down.  (Not enough money for gas anyway.)  All four children at each others throats. The man had a tooth ache and was less than agreeable for days on end.  The washing machine quit working.  And my cough persisted, making sleep damn near impossible.  It was my last week at a second job and everything that could go wrong there, did.  The going was as tough as its ever been.
And then it happened.  My favorite of my only two pairs of jeans, ripped.  Not in the leg, not in the pocket - on the butt.  Right between the panty line and pocket.  ... DISASTER.  These were my work pants, go to the store pants, night on the town pants - my otherwise I would be naked pants.
I shed more than a few tears that week.  But the rip, it was the last straw!  The very next day, in the uncomfortable last pair of jeans I own with only $4.76 in my wallet, I stopped at the local thrift store.  Determined to leave with pants, I made a bee line to the rack carrying my size.
There were seven pairs of jeans my size.  Just seven.  One with a stain, two in styles I wouldn't be caught dead wearing... So four, four possible wins.  Two of the four were five dollars.  TWO... Just TWO possible wins.  ... Wondering who owned them before they arrived here in this the purgatory of retail heaven, thinking about all the others who tried them on before me (shudder) - I stepped into the dressing room for the moment of truth.
Listening to the sounds of hangers gliding across the metal racks, shoppers mumbling and laughing and the beeps and chings of the register outside, I stood in that dressing room defeated.  The car won.  The kids won. The cough won.  I hung up the clothes, got dressed and left the dressing room a loser.
Head down, wondering how long before the uncomfortable jeans would meet the same fate as my favorite pair being washed and worn daily - I ran smack dab into a rack as I was leaving the store.  The sign read "25 cents" and right in front of me, a single pair of pants my size!  ... With renewed hope I raced to the dressing room and hurried to remove my pants... unhinged the hanger ... slid the pants on ... IT WAS A FIT!  THEY FIT!  THEY FIT!!!
27 cents, tax and all.  And I left that day a new woman.  What car?  What washing machine?  What kids?  Tired?  ha!  I got the deal of century!  And still with a little bit of money in my pocket!  I floated on cloud nine to the next big disaster with a smile

Written By: Who cares what I think anyways?

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