I love thrift stores. I love pawing through other people's discards, and finding something that is just my style for only a couple of dollars. I usually stick to the "knick-knacks" area, because while the clothing can offer up some treasures, it's usually packed tight and I get bored with flicking through hanger after hanger of holiday sweaters.
So there I am on Saturday, I've done my pass through knick-knacks and appliances and shoes and handbags and belts, and I'm finally on my way, empty-handed this time out, toward the registers and the front door beyond them.
Something catches my eye.
There, in the rack of black shirts. A glimpse of pale green embroidery that alerts something in my brain, and a synapse quietly fires.
I stop. I take a step backwards. I redirect myself down the 20-foot aisle of black shirts. I find the bit of green, I separate the hangars, and I am face-to-face with Scully PL-636. I really, really like Scully shirts. I only own one, because at a starting price of $75, I can't afford them. The one I have, I was as pleased as Punch to nab for a mere $36 at a clearance sale. This one? This one staring me in the face at the thrift store? It is $5.99. FIVE DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS. I may have squealed with delight.
I love thrift stores.
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