I always enjoy my house being clean but I’ve never been able to become excited about the process or to schedule reminders connected to doing certain things. (And I have known these people – though not well, perhaps tellingly.) They have laminated sheets and clipboards; Sunday morning stove scrub-downs and allotted days for vacuuming and laundry. I do not aspire to be part of this group.
When my parents decided that we would move to the UK when I was but a blossoming ‘tween, one of the (many) propaganda stories they hinted at (along with the acquisition of a pony, our own stables and a chuckling brook round the back) was that many young Brits-by-the-sea enjoyed “beachcombing” as a very suitable pastime. (I expect that these badass individuals spent the rest of their time modelling cabled sweaters on knitting patterns … just saying). The allure of a metal detector may or may not have been mentioned at this time but even at the advanced age of 13 I realized that this was severely uncool and was just not going to happen on my watch.
I find it fascinating that people often have all the same stuff to get rid of.
Empty coffee carafes abound at garage sales, as do toaster ovens, ugly and now obsolete “stereo units” that used to house square monolithic televisions, hairless, dismembered Barbies (‘Amputee Barbie’ never caught on, did it?) strings of Christmas lights we all kept re-buying, board games no one played, exercise bikes that people vowed to use as they watched TV (and obviously didn’t), boxed sets of dvds that were purchased so we could enjoy ‘Friends’ over and over and every Disney digitally remastered versions we were obliged to buy (first on VHS and then again on dvd).