Thrift Certificate
I've never been one for resolutions. Years end and years begin, but locking in—on a goal, or just on generally getting my sh*t together—doesn't really hang in the balance of a calendar shift. But I do have a January birthday, and with Capricorn placement comes a year-round love of strategy, an endless search for the caveat, and an obsession with parameters as competitive sport. And this is how I committed to a no-new-clothes 2025, during which buying new old clothes is not only fine, but encouraged.
You're thinking, now, about the litany of climate-related reasons behind the decision, and yes! Of course. Overconsumption is a beast to be tamed. Fast fashion and thoughtless returns are wreaking havoc on entire nations. My tender heart, like yours, weeps for this planet.
Also I just want to go thrifting.
There's an eroticism—tactile, financial—in discovering a perfectly oversized, 100% cashmere coat priced at $19.99. Lean closer; a whisper, a moan: it's Super Saver Thursday, and you're getting an additional 20% off. Desire and dopamine flood the system at the word “silk” on a care tag, and black leather cowboy boots, size 8, are an erogenous zone all their own. An illicit glance left, then right, before wrapping the waistband of a worn-and-faded pair of men’s Levi's around your neck to see if they'll fit; a catch in your throat at the wanton hedonism inherent in a well-cut white tee, already see-through and soft.
If I haven't lost you completely, I know—I know—that you are feeling me on a deeply spiritual level. There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see, and the thrift store as pleasure center is an underrated kink.
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