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I Am Not a Yard Sale Person

My mom is the yard sale queen. I am not exaggerating. She will drive past a yard sale in the middle of nowhere, spend 30 minutes sifting through old junk, and come away with a car full of treasures for $10. My sister is the same way. My mom tried her hardest to turn me into her yard sale protege but it just never took. I have no desire to dig through other people’s junk for the pleasure of discovering they have the same junk that I already have in my own garage. Plus I have a tendency to find disturbing and bad things when I go to yard sales .

So when a good friend of mine begged me to come with her to a community yard sale a couple of neighborhoods over from mine I was loathe to say yes. But she played the friend card and I had no way out.
She rolled up into my driveway at 5 am in the morning. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising yet, even the birds were still asleep. Then she had the absolute gall to not even bring me a coffee. She moaned about making a pit stop at a drive thru for a large coffee. Apparently she is a professional yard saler. I, on the other hand, am not really into anything that requires dragging myself out of the house while it’s still dark. Matt laughed when I told him I was going yard saling– he stopped laughing when I accidentally elbowed him in the gut while getting out of bed this morning. Why should I be the only one suffering?

She had the whole community mapped out. She actually had a map, and she made a list of all the yard sales she wanted to stop at within the community. She insisted on driving and as we rolled up to the first house, I knew why she wanted to drive. Because she’s a nutcase. She drove like a maniac trying to be the first one to this yard sale. Tires screeched, stop signs were ignored, old ladies driving 8 miles an hour were given the finger, naughty words were yelled out the open window at anyone not driving 20 miles over the speed limit….P.S.Y.C.H.O. I was terrified for my life and seeing as how I’ve been riding with Matt for the past decade and a half, that’s saying something.

We made it to the first sale and before I could even reach for my seatbelt, she was out of the car and headed towards the yard. I followed at a more normal pace for 5am….about 3 miles an hour slower than a snail. She was digging through piles of crap, I was more interested in people watching. I couldn’t believe what I saw….my eyes just couldn’t process the image yet I couldn’t look away.

Picture it….an older lady wearing bright neon yellow spandex bike shorts, a matching neon pink spandex tank top that barely contained her goodies, white knee socks with the ever popular black hi-top reeboks, and a neon green fanny pack around her waist. But that’s not the best part. I would remiss not to mention the network of blue spider veins that resembled the road map of the south on the back of her legs, the bright blue eyeshadow that only extended past her eyes by 2 inches or so, the bright pink lipstick that was so carefully applied….to her teeth, the fake eyelashes more fitting for a stripper, and of course, the bright red beehive hairstyle. Oh my eyes, my eyes! I couldn’t look away. I watched as she bent over to dig through piles of clothes, just waiting for the seam on those bike shorts to give up the fight and split wide open. Oh the horror….the horror!

By the end of the morning, my friend had spent a small fortune and the car was packed. I had to ride home holding a huge stuffed rabbit in my lap. And what did I buy, you ask? I spent a grand total of $0.50 on 3 kids books. Good times, good times. This is why I am not a yard saler.  I am still traumatized.

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