I’ve turned into the Queen of Neighborhood Thrift Shops. Since my move, I haunt them with relish regularity. It’s where my desk, bench, coffee table, couch and two chairs come from (yes, I now have a couch). Toss in a mirror and enough bric-a-brac to earn me a gallery at the Met, and I’m sitting pretty with my new, used acquisitions.
There’s nothing more exciting than finding an inexpensive treasure that makes your day. There it will be sitting nobly on a shelf, waiting for its second life to begin, bestowed benevolently by you.
My house is filled with such gems.
Never having a desire before, always living contentedly with very little, it’s pleasing to quench this sudden domestic thirst. Things like dishes and flatware eluded me just happy for one plate, knife and fork to call my own.
I feel like a girl in her 20s emptying her hope chest elated at what she’s collected.
Life is very funny, what it brings so late in the game.
As I admire my new, old cheese board next to the bread basket near the dessert plate covered with daisies, I gaze over to Yoga Cat bought for two dollars, sitting in lotus pose presiding over the premises praying peacefully in our new home.