We are moving again, and we are having another garage sale. This time we will embrace the garage sale concept and do it differently.
The last garage sale, which I convinced Baddy we needed to rid ourselves of useless paraphernalia before moving into our new home, was a whole lot of work without much benefit. But some of our favorite days have been spent riding our bikes around town with the boys, searching for treasures.
Your Junk Is Somebody Else’s Treasure
Baddy came over to help me the day before the sale and found me in a heap on the floor. “HELP,” I cried in complete despair. For the past week I had relentlessly sorted through all our clothes and useless junk, and the condo still looked like a bomb had gone off. Once again, he shook his head at me for naively leaping into an impossible task and became my superhero, moving all the heavy items outside and putting them on display.
By the day of the sale, I was worn out and over it. When my friend stopped by to check on me, she couldn’t help laughing at my sorry state and informed me that people were wandering around the parking lot unable to find the sale. It was so typical of me to be so organized and then fizzle out on such an important detail. Evidently my balloons, which had no price tag, had been taken by some oblivious mom. My friend took charge and went out to the parking lot to direct the lost and confused shoppers my way.
Axel sat bundled by my side selling juice and donuts to the cult of bargain hunters who descended on us an hour before we opened. They exchanged hellos and discerning looks as they meticulously sifted through every item. They chose the strangest things and tried to barter me down. At first I played hardball. The prices were already low, and I was not going to play their game. They were experts, though, and left only to come back eight hours later, when I was completely exhausted and ready to give it all away.
The second tier of shoppers were the lonely people looking for someone with time to listen. One woman was haunted by a bread machine she had once found at a sale but didn’t buy. She could not live in peace until she found another bargain like it. I told her I had no such item and sent signals that her time was up. I called myself on my cell phone and had a long fake conversation. When that didn’t work, I started running up and down the stairs pretending to be extremely busy. Unfazed, she kept chatting even when I disappeared mid-sentence. Finally, I redirected her to a superior sale down the street where she might find her long-lost bread machine.
My last customer sifted through the clothes with a sour expression while making a huge mess. She plopped all my skinny jeans on the table and bargained me down to $1 for the lot.
Two hundred dollars later, I sat emotionally distraught amid my still-endless pile. The sale was a bust. My only saving grace was a preview sale of my best clothes for friends before the garage sale, which made $1,500. I saw it as the perfect fit: I was helping my less fashion-conscious friends expand their wardrobes cheaply, and they were helping me by giving me their money. Some of them didn’t see it that way and refused to pay me anything, muttering that a friend doesn’t make another friend pay for old clothes. Others were more gracious but still tease me to this day about the $15 Gap sweater they bought from their good friend Jillian and have never worn.
Baddy and the boys were happy to hear I was done with sales forever (until now). They spent the next day loading up his truck and dropping off the remaining goods at local thrift shops. I told them it would be a long time before I’d be ready to hop on our bikes and visit other people’s discards. They told me to look on the bright side: the garage sale had taught us the bargaining skills we needed to find treasures at even better prices. Once my fragile state improved, they were ready to practice their new skills on other unsuspecting families having sales.
