Driftwood

Once again, Keith and I are knowingly, willingly, even somewhat actively tossing ourselves into a situation that we 1) know we will hate, and 2) could easily avoid.

Nope, we're not having a third child.

Actually, I'd love to have a third child. . . yes, yes, I know I'm 50, but look at what's-her-name, you know, the blonde news anchor. But--me and Keith and the whole third child debate, oh, let's not go there. It's not, umm, scenic. . . .

So, we're having a garage sale. We've had garage sales before. We've sworn we would never, ever have garage sales again. Yet tomorrow morning we're having one.

Why do we do these things to ourselves? It's not like, say, indulging in a huge slice of German chocolate cake when you're on a diet, or having those last three glasses of wine when you promised you'd stop at one, or buying that oh-so-cool pair of boots when you had resolved to cut back on spending--I mean, with all those things, you get something you want. Yes, you do pay a price, and maybe it's not a price worth paying, but there is pleasure in there, fleeting tho' it may be.

Garage sales do not bring us pleasure. Not even flickery little fleeting bits.

First, garage sale people are--at least in our experience--strange. And not strange in funky, amusing, intriguing ways; no, this is the "ohmygoshsomeonegetmeoutofhere" sort of strangeness. (I do apologize to all you garage sale people readers. I'm sure you're the exception to the strangeness rule. The sort of people I'm talking about would not be reading a blog written by a menopausal liberal Christian history professor mom. Not a chance.)

Second, and far more fundamental, garage sales lead to existential angst. We're having a garage sale because we're drowning in all this crap, and--to give us our due--we don't want to just add it all to the landfill. We believe in "Reuse--Recycle--Re-" shoot--"re-something." Whatever it is, we believe in it and try to practice it. But from whence cometh all this crap? What sort of person am I, that I have accumulated, sought out, yea, even desired, such stuff? And more horrifying, what kind of Me do I project, who is the public persona I have created, that my beloved ones shower me with all this shit? And why have I saved it? What was it all for? Who was I hoping to become?

And what the hell was I trying to do to/for/with my kids? For so much of this junk testifies to parenting gone mad. The ridiculously expensive sewing machine, resting there like driftwood washed up from Hugh's brief fashion design phase. All the sports paraphernalia, the detritus of the various teams and lessons into which we jollied the boys. Spools of thread and glue bottles and felt squares and paint canisters and wood burning tools in an anarchic heap, leftovers from arts and crafts projects long abandoned. And the heaps of music books--cello and piano and drums and flute and harmonica and recorder and guitar (both rhythm and electric).

A bit here, some tat there. All these shabby remnants of dreams discarded and hopes shrugged off, of that horrible moment when vision confronts reality. All this waste.

Really. This whole garage sale thing. It's not a good idea.