waste

A few months ago I was strapped for cash. I had $20 to last me a week. I made returns, I sold my bike, I crawled on my hands and knees, scouring my car floor for loose change. I was desperate. I decided it was time to go through the bags in the back of the closet that had haunted for years. Do it. Confront it. You're going to want dinner tonight. I don't want to say that I horde clothing, but the other option is that I'd clearly mismanaged my money and I don't want to say that's the case either. Unfortunately, both are really the case. I pulled out the piles of future money and got to sorting. Some things were picked up in thrift stores, others picked up in my 8 years at Urban Outfitters, all with some story about when or why I'd decided to make any of this mine. A party, a date, a saturday. It made me feel good. I got a discount. It was free.  I figured a few things would sell, a lot would get overlooked, and the rest could get donated. Starving and satisfied with my progress, I schlepped my treasure trove of junk down Ventura Blvd, from one second-hand retailer to the next. I made $6. It was just enough to get me home. I cried my way through rush hour traffic on the 101, eyes fixed on the gas gauge. I was starving. I was pissed. I had poor taste.

Suffice to say I made it home. My best friend took me for a drink and filled up my gas tank. I made it through the week. I made it through lots of weeks. I got paid. I shoved the clothes back into the closet. I hung up the pieces that I couldn't part with and left them flapping there, a constant reminder of how far I'd strayed. Correction, how far I'd come. I felt like a failure, but I was still a far cry away from where I'd been less than a year ago. The funny thing about those three dresses up there is that I bought them in the company of two very important people in my life who were very dear to me and who hurt me in very deep ways. Those dresses remind me of them, of that time, and of who I was when those bright flowers and thigh-hiding lengths grabbed my heart and made my peasant dress dreams seem real. 

It was a Sunday morning and apparently I'd had it off, because I made it to the flea markets Rose Bowl and Hollywood (which I guess was actually pretty special for me at the time). I remember shaking my boyfriend awake before the sun had come up. I texted my roommate, our closest friend, to make sure she was getting up down the hall. I was ready. Do not waste this day. We left, we coffeed, we drove. I remember it was cold and sunny and the grounds were empty. I remember being stoned out of my mind on gold fish edibles at seven in the morning, roaming the grounds, chugging on an iced vanilla latte. I remember being so proud of our finds that we each layered up in our new treasures and made our other roommate take pictures of us in our living room. Her, me, him, arms around each other laughing at how ridiculous we looked. I remember deleting the picture after I found out they were hooking up, annoyed at how happy we'd been, how mistrusting I'd been, how dishonest they'd been. I've let go of a lot of things: hurt, anger, the other half of my vinyl collection that he failed to pack for me when I eventually came back to pick up my things, but not those dresses. I figured one day I'd finally do it and I'd chosen those dresses to take me there. I've just been waiting for the universe to propel me towards it.

Recently, another person very dear to my heart found his way back into my life. In the month that I've been wading in the tide pools of the jobless sea, he's the first person to ask me about my etsy shop day dream. I remembered then that it was one of the first things I'd really ever told him about myself. He remembered and I felt all at once touched that someone, anyone, he of all people, knew and cared enough to ask, but also ashamed that, seven months into an oddly passionate fling and two months removed from the falling out, and I was standing in the same place he had found me. So I did it. I've been sitting idle wondering what on earth I want to do. I've been ignoring it, but it's time to get my head out of my ass. I can't keep worrying about money or time or failures. That's who I was back then, back at the flea market, back at the apartment, back with them. That's not who I am anymore. The funny thing about thrifting is the ability to recall the day, the time, the place, the people that surrounds any given moment. Finding a memory in a piece of fabric is a magically human endeavor. Those three dresses have been whispering the same thing every day since I woke up that Sunday morning. Do not waste this day. Thanks for reminding me, dresses.