My husband has a booth at the local flea market every Sunday. He sells other people’s useless surburban junk, which becomes someone else’s treasure. It’s old world recycling for the new world economy.
Usually I avoid the flea market. It’s crowded, it’s cluttered, and it’s shopping.
I drag my butt there twice a year, on Father’s Day and my husband’s birthday. But yesterday marked neither of those days. I went. Just because.
Here is my hour at the flea market yesterday, by the numbers.
35: number of minutes I watched my husband’s booth by myself
65: dollars I pocketed during that time
3: number of older men who told me I’m better looking than my husband
10: titles of John Wayne movies from a DVD set I read aloud to a gentleman who’d forgotten his reading glasses
4: ideas I gave an Italian grandfather on how to introduce his 17-year-old granddaughter to Shakespeare since school had failed to do this
1: story I heard from a Korean War vet about how he’d seen Marilyn Munroe in Korea
1: time I agreed with him that she had something Elizabeth Taylor did not
2: times I was told my husband had a good heart
3: people who told me our kids were adorable
12: toys my husband bought our kids while I was manning his booth
12: number of said toys my husband will sell next week, if I have anything to say about it
How was your weekend by the numbers?