On impulse this afternoon I walked into a very popular annual rummage sale held in a nearby community church. It was 1:15 when I made my way through the door; the sale had begun only 15 minutes earlier. Of course, those of you who have been to a rummage sale know the enduring smell of such sales. It is quite an overwhelming smell. I wondered if I could last more than a few minutes.
And then I took in the whole scene. I admit I should have put it all together beforehand: there was a police officer doing traffic control around the town oval solely to keep shoppers safe. And sure enough, those who had made it safely through the town oval were standing with arms loaded with clothes. There were women of all shapes and sizes and ages moving faster than I thought possible. Suddenly I was blinded by too much information, the straight lines of tables and racks twisting into a hellish labyrinth. It was the old Filene's Basement wedding dress sale, though the dresses were canvas and denim, wool and L.L. Bean fleece. There were old shoes, used Dunham boots, a less-than-fetching pair of Sorels. My skin, inexplicably and instantly, began to itch; histamines filled my sinuses. I quickly turned around and split through the four women -- apparently mothers and daughters who had arrived in the black BMW 328xi behind me -- and made my hasty escape. I had no right being there.
I was comforted to find other men outside -- I don't know how I had missed them when I had entered -- who found freedom in the big spaces. They all seemed to be panting. I felt for a moment that we all looked like we had just rushed out of a burning building. I could have used a blast from a hose.
Verdict: Rummage sales disprove the theory that men are hunter-gatherers. Maybe hunters, but definitely not gatherers. This man, at least, became instantly lost beneath the low-ceiling of a parish hall where everything looks and smells the same. Essentially worthless.
The very name strikes fear: rummage sale.
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