Too Clothes For Comfort – Part 2

Part two of my emotional journey to purge my closet, and the devastation wrought while separating myself from my beloved clothes … (not while I’m wearing them, mind you – that’s a completely different type of website which involves an up-front credit card transaction and the privacy settings on your computer…)

 

Step three:  “Garage Sale Fail”

Garage sales were really quite the rage back when newspapers were created exclusively on printing presses, rolled up with a rubber band, and subsequently flung from some kid’s bicycle into your front yard’s only existing mud puddle.  Having a garage sale required months of attic cleaning, little sticky labels, and tuna casserole dinners every night.  Most chillingly however, garage sales required a visit to a building called a “bank,” where one would acquire “dollar bills” and “rolled quarters.”

Note: if your were born after 1992, you don’t understand a single word I just wrote.

On second thought, let’s all do ourselves a HUGE favor and just skip the garage sale option.  Because if you ever actually do decide to oh, self-flagellate and host one, you will find that the only things that sell successfully are rickety bicycles, Hot Wheels and that black Sharpie you accidentally left on the Hot Wheels table.

CLOTHING DOES NOT SELL in garage sales…unless you price everything for a quarter.  And though an influx of quarters appears seemingly harmless, they will soon rear their ugly little Washington heads and lead you on another visit to “the bank.”

And because bank drive-thrus don’t transact rolled coins, and because my standard dress code for any drive-thru is pajamas minus my bra, I absolutely must recommend against selling your clothes in a garage sale.

Step four:  “Consignment Blues-tique”

After thorough investigative work, I’ve determined that brick and mortar consignment boutiques lead to loss of limb, decreased mental status and possible commitment (and not the good “he’s gonna finally marry me” kind of commitment).

First, consigning involves moving heavily-laden hangers of clothing from your closet to your car … to the drycleaner… to your car… to the consignment store…again to your car (are you serious?)… and back into your closet.  In the process, the hangers will tear the skin across your knuckles, and EVERYONE  knows that knuckle wounds are ALWAYS followed by staph infection, hospitalization and flesh-eating bacteria.

Second, you will need perfect teeth, dry wit and charm to impress the consignment shop owner.  Usually, said owner is a 16 year old girl wearing black nail polish and $900 jeans.  You won’t need an appointment to see her.  She has an effortlessly cool demeanor as you enter her shop.  Every other word she utters is “ya” or “OMG!” or “what evs.”  But to your dismay and horror, she’s not accepting anything bigger than a size zero.

The last time you wore a size zero, you were in utero…in the first trimester.

And so, something like this will play out instead.  You will visit with “Muriel” who owns the upscale consignment boutique.  She only consigns on the 4th Monday between 3:34 and 3:46 pm.  She wears Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds, pristine tailored suits and Anna Wintour’s pursed lips.  She looks constipated as you hoist your bounty onto her spotless countertop.  After a lot of hoop-jumping and prostrate grief on your part, she may deign to sell one or two items from the dozens you’ve just spent a small fortune having dry-cleaned.

This outright rejection is a shock to the system.  Does your wardrobe really reek that badly?  Depression will follow.  One day you’ll be politely asked to leave the boutique after accusing another customer of not buying your consignment because “what, isn’t that GOOD enough for you?” You’ll likely be banned from the neighboring strip mall as well.  More depression will follow.

Finally, you’ll receive the thrilling news that an item has sold… but you’ll only get 30%.  You’ll spend that hard-earned $15 on two Whitman’s Sampler boxes and a bottle of easy cheese.  A bad case of post-binge reflux will result in all too real nightmares involving Elizabeth Taylor and Muriel laughing menacingly while spraying your dry-cleaned clothing with easy cheese.

Put simply, consignment stores lead to “ya” amputation and one “OMG!” bout of cray cray.

Step five: “eBay”

Oh, eBay.  How you’ve failed me.  Trying to navigate through your listings to find an authentic auction has forever been destroyed by the glut of brand new items at “Buy it Now!!” prices.  Hello, isn’t that what AMAZON is for!?  At least Amazon gives me the chance to read bad reviews before I buy that Flava Flav signed baseball during a Whitman sampler stupor.

A few years ago, I auctioned 3 pairs of jeans on eBay.  Maddening.  It took hours to write up the description of each pair.  I paid fees up front and I hadn’t even sold yet.  The Paypal option confused me.  I didn’t charge enough for shipping.  I worried over the packaging (Fed Ex, UPS, USPS..S-O-L?) and ended up in a shoulder sling after shoving a standard pair of jeans into a flat rate mailer envelope that was obviously not made to fully contain a standard pair of jeans.  Look, everyone online said it could be done…and everything online is the God’s honest truth.  Right?  No?  OMG. What evs.

Later, when I presented the battered and duct taped envelope at the postal desk, I was positive that homeland security would immediately drop from the ceiling tiles to accuse me of a criminal act, like smuggling Chico’s jeans over state lines… or illegally using duct tape for a non-masculine repair job.

Step six:  An Epiphany From Ian Fleming? Really?

….and so, back into my bulging closet I crawled, with bruised ego and my 9 remaining knuckles.  I surveyed my inventory spilling out …like the monstrous blob from that movie.  Ya know, that movie about the blob. (I can’t recall the title)  OMG….where was I?  Ya, so I had a blobby closet and I felt…. DEFEATED.  And it was early December, and my Cyber Monday Christmas purchases were beginning to arrive on my doorstep, and with dwindling space to house them, I needed hope… a chorus of angels…oh, screw it.  I needed an aspirin and a glass of wine.

And then, I found IT…while browsing HuffPost the first week of December and reading about how the man who drinks shaken, not stirred martinis had whipped Edward, Bella and Jacob at the box office.

I found the answer.

 

James Bond WILL return in “Too Clothes For Comfort – Part 3”

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *