Almost every week I make an entrance into the small Goodwill outlet near my grocery store, loaded down with goodies like Santa Claus. As the door buzzer rings out, one of the two Goodwill ladies pops out, looks my way — and smiles in recognition.
Yep, in my quest for the simple life, I’ve become a Goodwill regular. I’ve entered the place where everyone knows my face (and my stuff). And, I’m proud of it.
I’ve been hauling to the good place for, well, forever. Every time I get upset, I purge. Needless to say, I’ve gotten upset a lot over the years, and Goodwill is one of the institutions which has benefitted from my dysfunctional life and my feeble attempt to control the world. Luckily, I’ve married a natural-born minimalist who doesn’t mind my expurgation rampages, and given birth to a tolerant young woman who lets me be all “OCD” on her. I’m also very respectful of other people’s stuff (i.e., I ask first).
When we moved to Indiana, I was overjoyed to find drive-through Goodwill stores. Oh, the easy rush of convenient drop-off purging is so addictive! I get a quick shot of that wonderful lightness of being without having to get out of my car (but I do, it’s only polite). Although my current store doesn’t have a drive-through, I can still practice the more deliberate and mindful ritual of parking curbside and walking my crap into the sanctuary of riddance.
I suppose the time will come when I can no longer find any “thing” to take to the Goodwill. Perhaps they will evolve into depositories for more ethereal baggage like bad habits or psychoses? My husband often worries aloud that one day he will be deposited in the car for a quick trip to Goodwill when he no longer serves a purpose. And the cat looks kinda nervous when the donation bags show up by the garage door. Who’s next?
But I digress.
Until that fateful day when I’m down to nothing but the clothes on my back and a prayer, I will continue to enjoy the donation high I get every time I walk into the Goodwill store.
Where there’s stuff, there’s hope.