I had it all planned. I was going to make so much money. Who cares that, as a writer, I don't get a whole lot of large paychecks? I was going to be laughing all the way to the bank. *cue maniacal laughter* You can rest easy. My brilliant plan had nothing whatsoever to do with conning some old billionaire out of his children's inheritance. Instead, I decided to delve deep into the world of selling my precious closet cargo to places like Kind Exchange and raking in the dough.
Like anyone else, I maintain that my collection of clothes is damn near priceless. I've been hard at work adding to my wardrobe over the years and am very selective of what goes in there. As someone who Instagrams their outfit every morning, I have to be sure I'm being sartorially smart when it comes to shopping. I have friends who, instead of asking to go to the nearest mall, ask to shop my closet. So naturally, when I decided to commence with a major summer clean out, I thought Kind Exchange would be stoked to buy my fabulous clothes from me.
There I was, star-eyed and naïve, thinking that by selling a bag full of clothing, I'd be able to pay for a week's worth of lunches, a manicure, a new lipstick and a trim. And maybe even everything together! Surely each item would net me at least ten dollars. I'd finally grown to understand how my friends in the industry worked such low-paying jobs and still wore big brand labels.
Scouring my closet was the easy part. Silk shorts, black blazer, white pants... everything was chosen based on how much it hurt my heart to part with. Dresses that forced me to well up at the thought of going through life without them were hastily placed (lovingly so they would know I'd never give them up) back on the rack, while pants that warranted barely an eye twitch of mourning were thrown into the "give away" bag. Soon, I had a bag that had me resembling Santa Claus when tossed over my shoulder. I had to eventually sneak it out just in case prying eyes thought they could convince me to slip them a little special something, free of charge. Not me! New clothing budget or bust.
And so I schlepped. I schlepped my bag to the nearest Kind Exchange with hopes of finally starting that 'Waterfront Condo (a.k.a. the New Pair of Shoes) Fund'. I gently laid my prospects out for the manager to sort through and even had the frame of mind to fold a rip away from her general vision. I smiled to the girl behind me with her own box of possessions and shared an '"aren't we clever" smirk. Manager Girl starting clicking away on her computer to assess the small fortune she would hand over while I refrained from rubbing my hands together like an evil genius from the cartoons. Finally she gave me the number I had been waiting to hear:
"$11.56"
"Per item? Wow that's more than I thought!" Yes! Manicures all around!
"No, $11.56 for these three things together."
I started to shake my head in denial. Less than twelve dollars? For stuff from MY closet? My carefully curated wardrobe? Why was it so low? And why didn't she want the other eight things I brought in?
"I won't buy them but you can donate them."
I weakly and mutely agreed to the terms she was giving me and began my walk of shame home to my obviously worthless closet.
Less than 12 dollars.
Until then, I had been picturing the auctions for the closets belonging to Daphne Guiness and Elizabeth Taylor in my head as something to eventually work towards. I mean, obviously my labels and brands didn't measure up but I knew I had style.
Less than 12 dollars.
How could I go on knowing that my precious, priceless wardrobe in fact had a price and it was embarrassingly low? Maybe shopping wasn't my forte and I should just be happy with what I have and stop trying to improve it. I mean, what's next? I bring in items for their fall season and not only get denied for any kind of pay out but flat out turned away?
Less. Than. Twelve. Dollars.
I should probably quit while I'm ahead. Start saving the money I spend on new clothes instead of banking money I'm going to get on gently used clothes. Work up to that waterfront condo (new shoes) without the help of the Kind Exchange Gestapo.
Ooooooh hey, look! A sale at Zara's...