Second-Hand Shopping is not Second-Rate

The hangers make that familiar metal-on-plastic clink as I sift through dozens of blouses and pants.  I’m blasting through someone else’s past in a tidy little second-hand clothing store in Okotoks and it’s the first of four my sisters and I will be visiting today. 

It’s a bit daunting, but worth the effort, I think.  I’ve become increasingly tired of spending $100 on one pair of jeans, (I know, even that is fairly cheap these days) or $65 for a simple t-shirt.  The buyer’s remorse coupled with the fact that I’m not even sure what I bought looks good on me or even goes together is frustrating.  In a mall, I wander around discouraged and overwhelmed.   To many choices is not always a good thing for me.  Usually, I give up within the first 30 minutes and head to the frozen yogurt stand to seek solace and comfort.

So after hearing a conversation from several co-workers about their amazing second-hand buys, I decide it’s time to take the plunge. 

But even after all my reasoning, I’m really not looking forward to spending my day indoors hunting for treasure like an apathetic pirate.  But I began to realize that I could treat this excursion like a mission, complete with a plan and a goal in mind.  So I come up with the idea of taking the $100 I would spend on one pair of pants at the yoga store and see how many gently used pieces of clothing I can buy with it.

So I adjust my attitude and stride into the first shop with a clear and determined mind.  I vow to go through every single shirt, blouse, vest and turtleneck one-by-one.  It doesn’t take long to find two blouses that actually fit and look half decent--and for $10 apiece, the thrifty side of me rejoices.

Feeling good about my finds, we drive to our next destination.  I picture a small shop like the one we were just in, but instead, we walk into one of the biggest second-hand shops I’ve ever seen.  Rows upon rows of every kind of shirt, pant, coat, dress, skirt and shoes line a space big enough to house a basketball court.  I feel myself deflate slightly.  I’ve had actual nightmares about this.  The air is thick with the scent of old refurbished clothing, and dozens of solemn-faced women peruse the racks with robotic-like focus.  I picture a pack of lions slowly circling their prey and then fighting over the carcass.  However, remembering my attitude adjustment, I begin the task.  After what feels like hours, I eventually find a pair of jeans that might work, trudge back to the dressing rooms and try them on.  No dice.  I give them to the harried sales lady and walk back into the fray.  The clothes are all color-coded, and so the isles look like an enormous color wheel—not a bad idea.  But still, it is too much for me, and I lose the small amount of determination I had when I walked in.  If only I had a personal shopper, I think, for the thousandth time.  Someone to just lead me around plying me with an armful of clothes and telling me what looks good. 

I am still at only $20, so we get back into the car and drive to our next location.  This one is a little more my style, tucked into an aging brick building in downtown Calgary.  It’s small, and we are the only people inside, so it begins to feel a little more intimate and casual.  The anxiety I had in the bigger store dissipates and I relax and go slowly through the racks.  I find a pair of tights, a yoga top and some sort of golden sparkly sleeveless number I wouldn’t normally buy.  But for $10, why not?   I soon realize that buying second hand clothing is actually making me a little bolder.  Or maybe it’s reckless.  Either way, it seems to be working.  I’m looking at dresses and other pieces I would never even consider at the mall.  I realize the reason is that my choices are limited, and the clothes are unique, a concept that appeals to me.

Our last destination is in the quaint Kensington area of Calgary.  The shop sits on the upper floor of a two-store building, overlooking a bustling street.  Inside, we find a similar vibe as our last shop and begin browsing.  I eventually find a great name brand short-sleeve pullover for a bargain.  I’m elated.  I end up with five pieces of clothing for just under $100.  Not bad for my first attempt.  I’m sure a more adept shopper would have squeezed a little more product out of their cash, but I’m satisfied.  I hear tell of a few more second-hand stores sprinkled around the city and I intend on going there soon.  Who knows what kind of treasure lies in wait for such unsuspecting (and sometimes unwilling) shoppers like me.

Laughter and Loud Music: A Mixed Bag

“I have tickets to go to a comedy club in a few weeks,” my husband announces one evening over dinner.  It should sound like a lot of fun, but instead, it fills my stomach with lead.

All week, I push the thought away, the same way I do on Sunday afternoons, when the idea of Monday morning work rears its ugly head.  I still haven’t figured out exactly why things like this are so hard for me.  Maybe a few hours with a psychologist would help, I think.  Ten-plus years of being a reporter, and the youngest of seven kids should have made a difference as well, but for some reason, large social outings only succeed in making me feel anxious.

Nevertheless, I persevere, telling myself it’s not like I am going to be the one on stage.  I just have to sit there in the dark and laugh.  Simple. 

The night arrives, and I put off getting dressed up until the last possible moment.   I stare at my closet and draw in a large tired breath.  My wardrobe looks like a gym teacher clashed with a librarian.  I have no idea what looks good on me.  So I grab some jeans and a top, throw on some mascara and try and forget about it.

Our friends arrive to pick us up and we crawl into their suburban.  I am comfortable with them and soon, I start to relax.  Their presence insolates me and makes me feel at ease.  This won’t be so bad.  Most of the new things I’ve tried have turned out great, so this should too. 

We arrive at the club and are ushered into a darkened room and squeeze around a table.  I am struck suddenly with the horrified thought that one of my friends will be that one person in the crowd everybody hates.  The heckler.  For someone who shies away from any kind of attention, this would be horrendously embarrassing.  I inwardly beg for silence from my table, and I am rewarded.  My friends are not inconsiderate big mouths with the maniacal desire to make others squirm. 

The comedians are hilarious.  The laughter calms me even further and I wonder what I was so worried about.  Exposure to these types of situations is exactly what I need—I do it to remind myself that the world is not a scary place to live and without a little risk, it seems dull somehow.

After the show, I am relieved to get out of the stuffy room and begin to think about pajamas and a movie.  Instead, my friends suggest we go out.  I cringe.  The little baby in me has a silent fit, and wants to scream.  Go out?  I think, we just did! I’ve done my duty for at least the next month.  Instead, I gather my remaining patience and go along with the group. 

They decide a pub would be a good idea.  That seems reasonable I think.  I like pubs—the casual atmosphere is unlike the bars I went to as a college student.  Just up my alley.  I’m okay with that.

We get to the doors and are stopped by two beefy men in black and a young man who looks like he couldn’t be much older than my teenage son.  I’m confused for a second, until I realize they are doormen, this young man’s enforcers.  Why would there be doormen at a pub?  My experiences with doormen was a long, long time ago, on a street we called Electric Ave.  Back then, there was a need for this kind of enforcement, because we were all young, with brains that had not quite developed the ability to think and act rationally.  What could they possibly need to do to a bunch of 40-somethings who would probably be in bed at this time of night, any other day of the week? 

The young man flashes a smile and asks to see our identification.  This instantly becomes the highlight of my night.  We whoop and holler like a pack of hooligans going to a soccer game.  We oblige and I pull my driver’s license out of my wallet basking in the glow of such a wonderful compliment.  But instead of looking at it, the youngster scans it into a hand held device that looks like a debit card machine.  A trickle of disappointment runs through me as I realize he would probably do this to my great grandma.

We file in and find a table.  The place is crowded and as I scan the room, I realize we are probably the oldest people in here by at least ten years.  I assume rather enviously, that the rest of our demographic is doing the rational thing and sticking to the solace and comfort of their homes.

I also notice that there is a dance floor.  Then it all comes into focus.  This is not a traditional pub in any sense of the word, where the tired, weather-beaten blue collar workers come to blow off steam in front of a large crackling open fire.  There are no dartboards or pool tables to speak of.  There are some antique-ish looking trinkets sprinkled throughout the place, but nothing is authentic, and it doesn’t match the vision I have in my mind. Instead of the grizzled old bartender, there are several young men and women slinging the drinks.  They probably don’t even have the double-barreled shotgun hidden within arm’s reach beneath the bar, I think with disappointment.

Looking around, I realize this is a place my 18-year-old self would have loved.  Now though, I feel like a teenager at a toddler’s birthday party.

We try to talk, but the music is so loud I have to lean over and yell into my husband’s ear and gesticulate wildly to communicate.  We sit around the table and occasionally try to say something.  But mostly, we just stare around the room.  My friend does try to say something, but I can’t hear and I’m too tired and lazy to figure it out, so I just nod my head and smile in what I hope are the right places.

We try to dance, but the music is just the same long, never ending pounding beat, like somewhere in the building, there is a drumming circle I’m not aware of.

I’m getting sensory overload and need some quiet.  After an hour, I convince my friends to leave.  Outside in the parking lot, we get odd stares from strangers, as we talk on our way to the vehicle.  I realize it’s because we are speaking at a volume way beyond what is normal and sound like a bunch of workers at a construction site.

I sigh in relief as we pile into the truck and make our way home.  We talk and have some good laughs at our own expense.  I’m not upset that I didn’t enjoy my first bar experience in a long time.  I just get more enjoyment out of other things, like a darkened comedy club, or sitting on the top of a mountain.  

I can happily say it’s just not for me. 

Wrestling, the Ultimate Spectator Sport

It’s Saturday night and I’m huddled on an unlit side of the Royal Canadian Legion in southeast Calgary.  Groups of people murmur in the darkness, our only illumination coming from a few dim streetlights hidden behind two tall, creaky pine trees.

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable in this situation, but this time, I’ve taken my son, sister, nephew and my mom with me.  We have come to watch my nephew wrestle in a Real Canadian Wrestling event.  His stage name is Evan Adams.  But I’ve known him for the past 24 years as Adam.   

 He has chosen a somewhat off beat passion and I want to see him perform…or compete.  I think it’s a combination of the two.  I am well aware of this type of wrestling, because as a kid, I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, Randy Macho Man Savage and Andre the Giant.  I’m pretty sure I know what to expect, and I’m curious to find out if things have changed since the WWF days.

I shift my feet on the icy sidewalk and hunker down into my jacket.  We wait for almost half an hour outside until the line starts moving. 

I’m surprised at how many people have come to see this.  We enter the building, and it’s packed with standing room only.  What I thought would be more like a gym, is actually a ballroom-style venue.  But instead of a dance floor, a wrestling ring has been set up in the middle.  There are chairs, but not enough for the couple hundred spectators.  We squeeze down an isle and find seats for my mom and sister.  My son and I find a fold-up table that seems to have been randomly stuffed in a back corner and we gingerly make it our perch.  Then we wait.  I really struggle with patience, and this situation is definitely testing it.  I look around and realize though, that the opportunity to do some prime people watching has presented itself.  This place is a gold mine. 

People in all shapes, sizes and demographics are here. A tired looking older woman wearing black skateboard shoes, tight black jeans and a T-shirt that is too small sits at the front.  I notice her because her shoulder-length hair is stripped in bright shades of pink, blue and green.  Behind her, a rather large pair of senior citizens sit sipping Big Gulps and beside me, a man with a Bill Cosby sweater, faded jeans and running shoes sips on a rum and coke.  Across the room, a group of young boys sit in wiggly anticipation; all of them are wearing wrestling masks of various designs.  A couple people have even brought their newborn babies. 

A half hour later, the show begins.  A woman, who I deduce is the MC, strolls into the ring to announce the first competitors.  In her black and white stripped pants, stiletto heals and black leather jacket, she reminds me of a female Beetlejuice.  

A middle-aged man in a red and blue Speedo emerges from a back room and strolls around the ring.  I think he is the “bad guy” in this match, because suddenly from all around the room, people are screaming and calling him names.  Soon after, his opponent enters and the crowd’s volume increases.  It feels like I’m in the middle of an authorized street fight.  The match begins as the two men take turns throwing, slapping and jumping on each other.  This lasts for 20 minutes until a winner is declared. 

I’ve been to a lot of competitive sporting events in my life, but this has got to be by far one of the most unique if not entertaining experiences I’ve had.  Watching this kind of wrestling on television is nothing like being here in person.  Unlike most sports, in wrestling, yelling insults and giving the finger to the competitors appears to be encouraged.  Likewise, the wrestlers have no problem throwing out aspersions of their own. 

During the next several matches, endearing phrases such as “pecker head” are uttered with great frequency.  At one point, someone from behind me yells out something to do with having bigger man parts than the wrestler.  The wrestler seems to have no problem with returning these witty insults with sharp comebacks like:  “Suck my sweaty balls you big, fat bastard!”

A group of people sitting beside me starts chanting, “shave your back!” to one fellow who has a rather thick layer of hair all over his body.  Another, more rotund wrestler comes out wearing a singlet, which basically looks like a one-piece bathing suit for men.  Unfortunately for him, it appears to be too small—a detail that doesn’t escape the crowd’s notice.  A chant of “fix your wedgie!” starts up and doesn’t diminish until the match is over. 

Despite the yelling and general chaos, the competitors put on a fairly impressive athletic display.  They jump from the top of the ropes, and land with precision on each other with practiced skill.  It is a red neck Cirque de Soleil.

My nephew’s fight is an all-out war, with three or four teams of two battling it out for the tag team title.  To my surprise, Adam is one of the bad guys.  I like it.  He breaks all kinds of “rules” during the match, sneaking into the ring when he shouldn’t to land a hard punch to an unsuspecting competitor’s back, while the referee’s back is turned.  I try to catch his eye during the fight, but he is completely immersed in character and I think, would probably shout something nasty at me if I yelled at him.  Eventually, they end up winning the fight and claiming the title.  I’m impressed by his passion and skill.  It’s hard enough being an athlete and competing at a high level.  In this kind of wrestling, to be “in character” is one more thing to think about while balanced precariously on top of the ropes preparing to thunder to the mat on top of someone else without really hurting them.

I’m an athlete, but the introvert in me would rather pull my nails out than be up in the middle of that ring. 

Although, I have to admit there is a certain allure to being allowed to punch someone in the neck and not get arrested for it.  Maybe I should start practicing.

This is 40: Rocking It Out or Rocking Chair?

“Whoa, I think it’s the lead singer from Whitesnake!” I say to my sister.  We watch as a skinny guy with long flowing blond hair hops up onto the stage and prepares for his band’s performance.  He is wearing skin-tight jeans, a black t-shirt and a white leather jacket. His band mates have followed suit but have opted for black leather jackets.  I’m not sure, but I also suspect the lead guitarist is Slash from Guns N Roses fame.  He has the long, black curly hair; but the top hat is missing.

I am at a local pub waiting to see my nephew perform with his new band.  But first, we get to hear two other bands playing an assortment of heavy metal and not so heavy rock.

The David Coverdale look-a-like starts into their first song, and I can’t help but wonder if they are any good.  Because I’m not sure what constitutes good rock and roll these days.  I ask my nephew and he gives me a funny look and a sarcastic reply.  I’m still not sure what to think, so I watch him watching the band.  He seems to enjoy them, so I sit back and try to do the same.  But man do I feel old tonight.  The music is difficult to appreciate and is so loud I am on sensory overload.  I find myself thinking of my cozy bed and a good book.  What has become of me?  I’m not that old.  Or is this what 40 looks like?  Twenty years ago going out at 10 p.m. would have been too early.  But now, I’m wishing for my over-sized fleece pajama pants and the tattered t-shirt that sometimes doubles as my paint shirt.

I’m tired but no one could fall asleep in this place.  It’s packed with an assortment of people who are almost more entertaining to watch than the band.  I notice as a young guy with layered, poker-straight red hair stands at the bar with a beer in one hand.  Actually, I would call his hair “feathered”.  Anybody who grew up in the 1970’s and 80’s knows what that looks like.  It was cool.  Thirty years ago.

My sister nudges me and tells me to keep watching.  Sure enough, every few minutes, he bows his head like he has found something really interesting on the floor to look at and then, without missing a beat, flips his long locks out of his eyes in a sweeping, super-model fashion.  I deduce that his other hand, hanging limply at his side, is too heavy to lift and move the hair out of his eyes. 

The ear piercings and tattoos are on full parade tonight, and I find myself staring at a tattoo of a snake entwined on a flower running up a woman’s beefy arm.  It disappears under her shirtsleeve, and I can’t help but wonder what the rest looks like.  Not that I want to find out.  She looks like she could hang a licking on me.

There is also enough old Levi denim, white socks and tennis shoes to fill a thrift store.  It looks like the 1990’s all over again.  And ironically, most of the people in here are much younger than I am.  Except for the old man and his wife, who sit at the bar and look as out of place as a football player in a tutu.

Eventually, my nephew’s band begins their set up and they start to play.  I’m impressed with my nephew’s creativity and guitar prowess.  His fingers fly over the strings.  In his hands, the instrument looks like it is an extension of him.  I’m proud of him.  It takes a lot of hard work and guts to get up on a stage and play in front of strangers. 

They finish their set and we wait around to give our compliments before leaving.  I look at my watch and realize it’s almost 1:30 IN THE MORNING.  I’m usually a few hours into my REM at this point.  How did I ever do this, almost every weekend, back in the day?  It’s been twenty years, and two kids later, but it’s still not hard to remember how.  And why.  I had nothing to lose, and a heck of a lot more time and energy on my hands.  And of course, it was a lot of fun.

Then it hits me:  I’m thinking like a senior citizen.  I’m not 80.  I can still enjoy a fun night out, just maybe not in this particular way.   As we drive home through the frozen morning, I wonder if my husband and I could learn to salsa.  The thought soon passes from my mind as exhaustion sets in and earlier thoughts of a warm bed take over.  There will be plenty of time for dancing.  After I get some sleep.