Yard Sale

“It’s like free money,” Rachel said to me while handing me a measly dollar bill. I was 3 hours in to my one-day-only yard sale and had given her negotiating power because she could sell ice to Eskimos. “But I paid eight bucks for that,” I said, lamenting that my lovely Haeger vase would have easily fetched $80.00 in TriBeCa. “Well, this ain’t the big city, sister, this is a tag sale in Jersey and unless you want the trouble of carting it off tomorrow, I’m selling it for a dollar.”

I didn’t want to donate it to the Far Hills VNA Rummage Sale. I wanted to sell everything. I had visions of getting asking price for all of my treasures then rolling in the dough like a nineties video vixen. I had purged for months; sorted, boxed and priced. I had high hopes in the same way I have high hopes for leftovers. “If you don’t eat it, I’m throwing it out,” I recalled George Carlin saying. It was ludicrous to feel self-righteous about stuff that wasn’t living up to my own standards. Was I hurt? Na. I know I have good taste. Except for everything on that table over there and that puffy, neon salmon, reversible ski jacket. And the magnetic jewelry. But otherwise, the stuff that I’m not selling? It’s all fabulous. Take my word for it. Great taste.

Rachel shoved another grubby dollar in my hand and said, “Don’t ask and don’t look,” so I turned away, tensing my shoulders as if I’d heard glass break. Clearly ensnared in an Escher-esque rubrik of commercialist greed vs. ego, I was beginning to feel mildly annoyed that I’d had the bright idea in the first place. Nothing like a divorce to get your purge on. But even if we weren’t I’d probably be doing this about now anyway. Ten years is plenty of time to log how often I’d used the waffle iron (twice) and needed seven extra ice cube trays on hand (never-- I buy bags at Kings) or six wooden, folding chairs from the late fifties which I’d completely forgotten were stored under the basement stairs, just in case. I’d paid twelve dollars each-- which was a steal then-- and now they’re going for five? Should be thirty-five! I was taking it all wrong. I was starting to go bonkers.

“You okay?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, I’m good.” I said, “It’s just-” She looked at me straight on, “You were going to donate it all for nothing, right?” “Right.” “And here we are enjoying a nice day, having a laugh or two, and you might make a little cash to boot, yes?” “Yes.” “But what’s more important is that you’re getting rid of all this stuff that you don’t need, and putting it back into circulation to make more room for you. So, it’s free money. And we’re lucky to be alive. Okay?” “Okay.”

Bottom line: lucky to be alive. Next time: skipping the sale.