A couple of weekends ago, I celebrated the advent of spring by going to a semi-amazing rummage sale at a thrift store in Brooklyn. The premise was simple: pay $20 at the door and then cram a bag with whatever articles of clothing you want (which weren’t neatly hanging on racks, mind you --- they were all thrown into a giant heap on the floor). While the atmosphere was a little scary --- hordes of people clawing through heaps of dresses and wrinkled scarves of questionable quality --- the thrill was unparalleled. There’s something so much more exciting about getting something used than something new --- your outfit is layered with a sense of history and meaning. It doesn’t just feel purchased, it feels earned.
Anyway, maybe it was the sale, but this vintage sensibility has recently seeped into my literary ponderings, too.