I was four years old when I realized I wasn't like the other kids. My grandma had just dropped me off for preschool when my teacher took one look at my empty arms and asked, “Where's your piece for show and tell?” I glanced around the room. My classmates clutched their favorite blankets and books. A couple kids smugly showed off Cabbage Patch dolls and talking Teddy Ruxpins.
Me? I came prepared to show off my “new” sweater. I use “new” loosely here because by no means was my sweater fresh off the rack of our local department store. The sweater I sported was something I found with my grandma at a yard sale two days prior. Bright teal with white lambs and pink hearts woven throughout and topped off with puff sleeves that engulfed my spindly arms, this 1970's castoff found a second life in the closet and heart of a preschooler a decade after its birth. While other kids bragged about their last birthday gift, I chose to showcase what I believed was a true treasure—a crazy, unique sweater acquired for the bargain price of one dime from an old lady who lived down the street from me.
Every weekend of my childhood was spent at yard sales, flea markets or sifting through the racks of my grandma's resale shop. For nearly every milestone in my life, I can connect a piece of second-hand clothing: I wore a $5 powder blue taffeta gown in a preteen pageant I begged to do, I donned used cowboy boots in the first school play I was in, and I was wearing thrifted jean cutoffs when the man I would later marry became my boyfriend.
I have no doubt that my grandma's love of buying castoff remains the biggest influence on the way I shop and dress. While my blogging peers get frantically excited about the latest New York fashion shows, I get excited about a 50% off coupon for my favorite thrift store.
Despite having a blog that does relatively well in the fashion blogger subset, I don't know if I can ever say I was into “fashion.” I can't look at a magazine editorial and pick out the Marc Jacobs pieces versus Michael Kors. I don't own a Chanel jacket or a pair of Jimmy Choos. Sure, I've bookmarked a dreamy Proenza Schouler handbag or two on Pinterest, but honestly, my go-to bag is a little leather clutch I found at Texas Thrift a couple years ago.
When flipping through thrift store racks, I find myself hugging garments to my chest and imagining the colorful lives the clothes used to lead. I wonder how they fell from grace; how were they once so beloved but now hang dejected with an endless army of injured, forgotten comrades? Then I check my pocketbook and make a few rescues: a 1950's ballgown here, a hand-painted kimono from the 70's there. Like my grandma, who, incidentally, still goes to yard sales on the weekends, I believe second-hand clothes have stories to tell, and I want to hear them speak again.
In a very small way, I see my thrift store adventures as a tiny analogy to my own life story. After my father's death and my mother's choice to give up custody of me, there were times I felt abandoned and unwanted. My grandparents swooped in and saved me. They were the ones who mended my tears and ultimately gave me the voice to share my story. More importantly, though, as I grow in my faith, I'm starting to see that this story of redemption—that is, taking the castoffs and the declaring them treasures—is exactly how God sees me.
My penchant for dressing a little offbeat caused me to be a bit of an outcast in the small town where I grew up. Even in college, my old lady sweaters and animal jewelry made me an anomaly in a sea of mall brands. But as I've entered into my 30's, I'm finally seeing that that's okay. One of the reasons why Austin instantly felt like home to me is because we are a city full of people who learned at an early age that we weren't like the other kids. Plus, no one here has ever scoffed in my face at an ugly sweater I've worn in public, so that's pretty cool.