I st-st-stutter when you ask me what I'm thinkin' 'bout

Yesterday had been on our calendar for months.

The event? The grand opening of a new thrift store near us. This may not sound huge to you, but when you visit thrift stores at least ten times a week, and when you respond to the question "How are you?" with "Two-dollar J Crew corduroys in light gray and jeweled cardigan, NWT for three dollars," this sort of thing is on the level of a Harry Potter premier where the new Apple product is announced. Our entire week was planned around the grand opening - we couldn't bear the thought of getting there too late and missing everything.

"Do you think that's early enough?"

"What if we get there fifteen minutes after it opens and the store is just empty?"

The scenario was reminiscent of when we saw Winged Migration at the university theater. Don't tell me you haven't heard of Winged Migration. The silent French documentary that takes an in-depth look at the migratory patterns of birds on all seven continents? Nominees for "best documentary" at the Academy Awards are usually a must-see for young people, so we knew it would be a sold-out show. We got there an hour early to get decent seats, and we ran the last couple feet, worried we'd have to stand in the back.

It ended up being just us and a professor in the theater. People were really missing out - it's a rad movie. Even though the professor fell asleep.



Not being the type of people who learn from their mistakes, we rushed to the thrift store grand opening recklessly early, expecting to make fools of ourselves again. Does the average person care about this sort of event? We imagined springing through the doors to see only an old man and some tumbleweed. But when the four cars in front of us all pulled into the thrift store parking lot we knew we were onto something big.

Inside hundreds of people were pushing shopping carts stacked higher than their line of vision with second-hand items. It was the first day of summer vacation, so every adult had five kids orbiting them, jumping out of clothing racks, throwing Harry Potter toys, climbing on old sofas and dressers missing drawers. Teenagers at the door were handing out helium balloons AND weinie dog balloons. This was the big leagues of grand openings. And the result of it all: a one-hour line at the dressing room.

Standing in a line like that is similar, I assume, to being trapped in a mine or elevator. You become friends with the people around you as quickly as germs are transferred to a potato chip when it hits the ground. Within fifteen minutes I found myself telling the middle-aged woman behind me that I thought jeweled capris would hurt her butt, and for some reason confessing that a top I was about to try on was Miley Cyrus brand.

"I would never go out to a regular store and buy this..." I blushed. "But it's so cute!" She exclaimed, eyeing the jeweled capris on the rack and absentmindedly running her hand over her backside. "And it would look so great on you, you know?" Do you know? I thought. Do you even know my name? I could BE Miley Cyrus. I could be trying to gauge my popularity among mothers in urban thrift stores.

"Just make sure you cut the tags off," she added."



Miley Cyrus loves touching her hair. Who knew?

An older lady in front of me, probably in her eighties was sitting very quietly in a wheelchair. She was holding only a sweater, and her gaze was fixed on the empty space between her and the rack of jeans a couple feet away. A man with a cart full of sports jerseys leaned over and asked "What are you thinking about?"

"My mother," said the lady.

"Me too," said the man.

"I think about my mother every day." she whispered. The sweater was shaking in her hands.