I suppose it would make a better story if the midget had actually bought something, but she didn't. It's too bad, really, because I would have loved to have been able to picture a midget out in the world sporting my Esprit overalls circa 1994. That would have been great. But alas.

Some of my stuff DID sell, in the end. After talking me down to 50 cents a piece, a little old lady came and bought almost all of my blouses and shorts for her grandaughter.

Someone else bought a pair of shoes. I wanted to warn her that the particular pair she chose was damn uncomfortable, but I figured, hey - caveat emptor.

Although it was satisfying to finally sell some stuff, it was surprisingly difficult to watch.

"There goes that stuffed bear _____ gave me," I thought wistfully, as a little girl walked away with it. "There goes the blouse I interviewed in at BTA." "There goes the sun dress I was wearing when I kissed ______," And so on.

As unmaterialistic as you think you are, it's hard to detach yourself from your belongings. Everything means something.

There's this show I'm kind of addicted to right now called Clean Sweep. The hosts of the show go to a slob's clutter-filled house and force them to sell or throw away all of their useless crap, and then they redecorate. It's a really stupid show, but you'd be surprised how emotional it gets. "Why are you keeping this old shirt?" the clutter enforcer asked one woman. "It doesn't fit you, and it's stained."

"It was my grandmother's," the woman said, tearing up.

"This shirt is not your grandmother," the clutter enforcer said. "Let go."

I kept thinking of that as the garage sale wore on. "That dresser is not my childhood," I told myself, when a man bought the dresser I'd had since I was 9. "That dress is not Christmastime."

At the end of the day, I felt lighter. Happier. Time to make new memories, I thought.

A good excuse to shop, don't you think?