I culled thirty or so items from my closet. I cleaned them, folded them nicely, and put them in my biggest, sturdiest bag (thanks, IKEA!).
I slung that over my shoulder - and believe me, it wasn't light - and hiked seven blocks to my local consignment shop. While they pawed through my stuff, I wandered around the store for a few minutes, then meandered back to the front.
"Any luck?" I asked, with a big, hopeful smile. I was preeeeetty sure they would like most of what I'd brought: vintage hats and purses; designer skirts; cashmere sweaters. But piled on the counter were just six items. Six!?
|I had to haul all of this back home.|
And I was reminded of why I mostly hate taking my things to consignment stores.