My husband made a new discovery last month. It’s called the thrift store. I’ve been a thrift store aficionado since high school, but somehow my husband never really caught on. I’ve been trying to figure out how this happened, and the only thing I can think of is that the only time he’s been with me to a thrift store was when I went to the charity shops in the UK. Brits must not have nearly as many things to throw away as Americans because those shops are tiny. American thrift shops contain acres of items. It’s a regular bonanza of discovery. (I just wanted to say bonanza. There’s something satisfying about that word.)
The first time I took my husband to my favorite thrift shop here he marveled at the number of items there. “There are just so many clothes,” he said as we started sifting through button-down shirts. There were tons of clothes, but because my husband is so thin, there were only like six shirts in his size. That happens no matter where I take him to shop. Pants choices are usually limited to four, shirt choices maybe ten. It’s so annoying.
“I can actually have enough gig shirts without spending a fortune,” he announced holding up a blue button-down. My husband somehow manages to ruin clothes. I’m not sure what’s going on, but after only a month his new shirts start looking like they’re ten years old. I can have clothes for years and they still look brand new, but he’s got a special talent for ruining clothes. Well everyone is good at something.