Thrift

I often describe myself as the world’s cheapest human, which isn’t quite true, but close. It’s not that I won’t spend money, but I really, really hate paying any more for an item than is absolutely necessary. I love a bargain.

While this has been true for a long time, it became even more important when our family income was cut in half a few years ago. Although we hadn’t been living a lavish lifestyle, at that point we had to make some serious adjustments. We had to tighten up everywhere.

Clothing can be considered a luxury, but with growing kids it’s a necessity. While at one time we relied on thrift store purchases for costumes for school plays or for Halloween, when I lost my job and we added two children to the family almost simultaneously, shopping thrift stores for clothing became an important way of keeping expenses in check.

Here in Grand Rapids we have a few thrift stores that support local missions that I frequent occasionally, and I used to shop Goodwill until I learned of the dramatic pay disparity within the company, but the Salvation Army Store is my current go-to. I’m especially partial to the days (about once a month) when clothing is 99 cents per piece. No need to check the tags or do too much math…the perfect shopping experience.

I’m not the only one who takes advantage of these sales, so on 99 days, the place is packed. The entirely inadequate parking lot overflows, so people ignore the do-not-park-here signs at the enormous (often empty) parking lot of the neighboring garden center. I often park in this lot, but I park in a part that isn’t tagged for towing so I’m pretty sure my car will be there when I come out.

The store has an aroma all its own: musty, with a hint of mothballs and grandma’s cologne. On busy days it’s tough to get a cart, but if your timing is right, you can score some wheels. Of course, the aisles are narrow, so shopping with a cart will definitely slow you down. It’s a calculated risk, either way, but if I have time to really browse, the cart is a good choice.

On sale days, I start in the boutique, where the high-end stuff is lodged. I’ve never been a brand-name snob, but I know good quality, and I know that sometimes I can find it sequestered on these front racks. The store puts a higher price on boutique stuff, but on 99 cent days, it’s 99 cents. I check the racks for men’s stuff, women’s stuff, kids’ stuff. I examine the pieces for wear, for stains, and for working zippers. Replacing a button is no big deal, but if I have to replace a zipper it never ends well.

Many people shop together as families. Young children run wild, scream from boredom, or sit on the nasty stained floor and play with the toys that are for sale while mom and dad consult about items they’ve pulled from the rack. It appears that many of my fellow shoppers are recent immigrants; I often hear Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and the languages of Africa, as well as languages and accents I can’t identify.

Because of the ages and genders of my family, I shop virtually every rack of clothing, crawling past other shoppers with their overflowing carts. Clothes are sorted by gender and by color but not by size, so you can spend a lot of time looking and might still come up empty handed. For the kids, if I find something good I buy it even if it’s a size or two large; quality kids’ stuff isn’t easy to come by.

Thanks to some modest sewing skills, sometimes I can repair or alter something to make it work, and I’ve actually refashioned a few things so that they’re quite wearable. But not everything is worth the effort, so I focus on things that have real potential. Even 99 cents isn’t a bargain if you’re not going to wear it.

The lines for the five dressing rooms are crazy long on these days, so I know better than to buy anything that has to be tried on. If I am shopping for pants for myself, I come alone on a quiet Tuesday morning and take my time in the dressing room. For these pieces I have to pay “full price,” which is still a bargain, and way better for my sanity.

When my shopping is done, or when I’ve had enough of the experience, I make my way to the checkout and pull off the hangers while waiting in line, tossing them into gigantic boxes. Invariably I’m caught up in a conversation with other shoppers during the slow crawl up to the register, and I learn a tiny bit about the lives of the working poor. In general they are smart, hardworking, family-oriented, and kind—like most people everywhere. While I feel a great deal of kinship with them, I’m sure that in terms of material wealth I am a millionaire in comparison.

After a half-hour in line, I leave with two enormous bags: six pair of men’s pants, five men’s polos, a few things for the kids, and three shirts for me…for $18. The musty smell fills my car and then my laundry room, where I quickly wash away the stink and the stigma.

Because I do feel it: the ways that we are measured by what we wear. I believe that our outward appearance says something about who we are. And while I’m proud of how well I can dress my family shopping this way, I am careful about how many people I tell. Well, at least until now…

What the heck. Go ahead and judge if you must, or join me at the next sale and score some fabulous bargains. Either way, I’m fine.