I didn't really want to use that as tonight's song. But as earworms go, this is proving to be remarkably pernicious, and it won't leave me alone. I gave in and gave it top billing. Maybe now I can stop hearing just the chorus echo in my head.
I'm not typically a thrift store shopper. I'm more the drop off than pick up type. Today we went to one with the kids, in search of clothes that could be altered to make this year's Halloween costumes. I don't know whether I have permission to say what they are going as, so I'll skip that part. We searched the whole store, just for fun, not just the kid clothes section. I ended up getting a small, shiny, silver-adjacent bowl, while the kids loaded up on stuff. I'm not even sure what all they got, other than a Bambi plushie for Valerie and one of those Playskool popper toys that Dmitri pushed all over the store and would not be separated from. Valerie and I found a big ottoman that I might go back for tomorrow, if it's still there. I need something to put my feet up on, now that we have turned the basement room back into a TV lounge.
I know people who think thrift shopping is the absolute best, but I just come away from those stores feeling a little sad. I suppose I could look inside myself and figure out why, but I haven't done so yet. Maybe it is the sense of abandoned dreams I get from some of these objects. Maybe it's the rejection of trappings of the past, a projection of how I feel when I hold my own donation items and decide I'm not that person anymore. There was a little schadenfreude seeing Beanie Babies hanging on the rack, with sub-two dollar price tags on them. I wrote the family text group, saying, "some 90s person's retirement dreams up in smoke."
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