I’m all for being frugal, but I just do not do the whole Goodwill/vintage/consignment shop thing. I know “shopping for vintage steals” is practically a prerequisite hobby when you’re a 20something girl in New York. I know people find perfectly good clothes—even high-end labels—for super cheap. I know there are plenty of people who simply can’t afford to buy clothes in any other way. But I don’t think I can ever bring myself to buy someone else’s used shirt (that they probably sweated, and God knows what else, in), and actually wear it. Just writing about it makes me want to shudder.
This is honestly out of character for me; I’m not usually a germaphobe or hyper-paranoid. I’ve just always had a really negative attitude about used clothing, which I can pinpoint to my pre-junior high years. It was the ’90s, my older sister was into the grunge scene, and her trips to Ragstock were horribly frequent and lengthy. Guess who got to go with her? Me. Minneapolis’ Uptown Ragstock (yes, this was before you could find a Ragstock in every mall in the Twin Cities) had that icky stench of B.O. and basement and cheap body glitter gel. It simply reeked, and smell is a tough sense to try forgetting.
Fast-forward a few years, and I’m interning in NYC one summer during college. I agree to go to Brooklyn’s Beacon’s Closet with a few vintage-loving friends. It’s crowded, haphazard, and definitely has that vintage stench. I do my fake browsing, carefully touching as little of the items as possible. Meanwhile, my friends are making multiple trips to the curtained closets that pass as dressing rooms. I feign interest for as long as possible, then finally pick out an ugly pearl broach, make my purchase, and wait outside. Forever. Did I mention this was in July? Needless to say, the day got much better when we headed across the street to Brooklyn Brewery. That was the last time I’ve been to a vintage shop.
Until last Sunday, when Mister Redhead and I made our inaugural trip to the local Goodwill to donate clothes (hey, I’m all for charity, and be my guest if you want to wear my old stuff). I’ve been on the hunt for a new, cheap winter coat, so I thought I might as well look around while we were there. Coats seem safer than your average piece of clothing—not as much bodily contact. Well, the coats were fugly. So I checked out the wide variety of skirts, and actually saw a lot I liked. I even ventured to try one on. Maybe my hatred for used clothing has lifted! Maybe this is how I can do all my shopping from now on! Think of how much I can get for my money! And then I saw it, as I turned to look in the mirror: ever-so-faint stains, all over the back of the skirt. Ew, ew, EW! I hightailed it out of the dressing room, then spotted Mister Redhead standing uncomfortably in the shoe section. “It stinks in the entire men’s section,” he says. “Can we leave?”
Surprisingly, our mutual hatred for vintage has never been discussed. We spent the entire walk home obsessing about how Goodwills give us the willies. The smell, the wearing of others’ clothes, the weirdness of it all. And although I may be missing out on great deals, I take solace in the fact that this anti-Goodwill attitude is something Mister Redhead and I share, and I will proudly add it to the very short list of things we have in common.
