Last week I had one of those freak out moments where I felt like I needed to purge everything in my closet or my head would explode. I should have taken a "before" picture of my closet but I was too lazy. So just imagine actively choosing to go to Taste of Chicago to hang out in a crowd of 120000 people wearing unironic fanny packs and jams... all packed in like Froman sausages. Everywhere you look is food you use to like, but now no longer sates your hunger. That was my wardrobe. I mean, it still sort of is except I got rid of 75% of my stuff so now I have a closet more akin to a free concert night at Pritzker Pavilion ...room enough to snake through to get to the bathroom (i.e., my belts). Does that analogy make sense? If not, sorry. I am not thinking of something else.
Anyway, that isn't my point. My point is that I took five bags of clothes to two different resale shops on Milwaukee Ave. in Wicker Park and left feeling like I am THE DORKIEST PERSON ON EARTH. What? Those bootleg Citizen jeans aren't cool enough for you? You need something tight enough to render a man sterile? Fair enough. Oh, I see, you are looking for spring dresses but not the ones that have thin straps in neutral colors that are shaped like an actual dress? That makes sense. What you really want is a square sack so unhip it's hip to wear with your Ray Ban Wayfarers? Why didn't you say so. I LOVE sacks. Almost as much as the cropped belly shirt you are wearing. And dirty hair. OK, I have to call myself out on the last little jab because showering isn't my number one favorite activity. But go ahead and unfold every item searching for something "rad" enough to fill your racks.
Don't get me wrong, there was some crazy ass stuff in those bags. Like what? How about some DC Ann Taylor crap circa 2004 (what 24 year old shops at Ann Taylor? This one did. Dear Lord). And wool Banana Republic pants made in 2006 by tiny children's fingers in China. Again, fine. But do you know what they bought back? Two belts. TWO FREAKING BELTS. And I could get 35% cash or 50% in credit to the store. I took the money and ran, fools. It bought a beer to cry into while I lamented over my too blue, not narrow enough jeans. Well, the money almost covered the tip.
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