We had a garage sale this weekend, and it was semi-traumatic for me on many levels.

I had a bunch of shit to sell, because I am somewhat of a pack rat. (I prefer to call it "overly sentimental.")

I was hoping to unload some stuff from my old apartment - some very cute bath accessories (pink Laura Ashley), some framed prints, girly dishes, unburned scented candles, etc. In addition to that stuff, I was also hoping to sell a ton of clothes. Now that I work from home, I don't need blazers, skirts, suits, blouses, etc. I also wanted to sell some sun dresses, a few formal dresses worn to Christmas parties past, and several pairs of shoes worn only once or twice.

I have to admit, I thought I'd sell almost everything. I take very good care of my clothes, and this was good shit. I'm talking stuff with the TAGS still on. I'm talking work attire still in bags from the cleaners. Stuff like that.

In addition to the obvious quality of the merchandise, I planned to tempt shoppers with my skillful displays. I hung everything neatly on racks and arranged items according to genre - work, casual, etc. I arranged my shoes carefully on a rack. I had very high hopes for the sale.

D is even more of a pack rat than I am, and thus had a lot more stuff to sell. He had about 10 boxes of shirts, sweaters, pants and jackets, in additon to video tapes, DVDs and cassette tapes. He did not, however, take the care I took with his merchandise. He threw his tired old t-shirts and ripped jeans into cardboard boxes and put them on the front lawn.

You can see where this is going, right?

His stuff sold like crazy. People swarmed all over the front lawn, rumaging through his boxes and grabbing his dirty sneakers and faded shirts. They practically fell all over themselves for his old Led Zeppelin cassette tapes. (Who the hell listens to cassette tapes in this day and age? I ask you!) It was a madhouse. People practically ran up to him to thrust money into his hands.

As for my stuff? Well ... not so much. It was quite painful to witness the rejection of objects that had once been precious to me. The rejection of my belongings translated into a rejection of me. I know it's silly to take something like this personally, but you know me. I was offended, frankly.

Lest you think the items were overpriced, let me assure you - they were not. I priced most things at $1, and nothing was over $5.

Finally, our neighbor, Rhoda, came over. "Looks like you guys are doing great," she said.

"Mm-hm," I muttered.

"Well, except for your stuff," she said.

I refrained from punching her.

"That's what you get for being so petite!" she said. "No one can fit into your clothes!"

And just like that, I felt better. Of course no one was buying my clothes! The hefty, corn-fed housewives of the San Fernando Valley can't fit into size four jeans! (By the way, I can't fit into size four jeans. Those jeans were at least three years old.)

It's taken me a long time to come to grips with being "petite." Being 5'2", I've always had a bit of a complex about being too short. It's not a big deal, but it's created a few inconveniences in my life. For example, I can't reach stuff on the top grocery shelf. (I usually wait until the aisle is clear and then climb onto the lowest shelf).

Being short also makes people think I'm younger than I am. Not a big deal most of the time, but it can be irritating. In work situations, for example, people tend to take you less seriously. Also, as recently as two Christmases ago at a family gathering I was asked to kneel in front with the children for the group photo. (I refused.)

So you see, I'm a teeny bit sensitive about being short, but in this case, it made me feel better. People weren't rejecting my taste, they were rejecting the size of the clothing.

My feeling of joy lasted about two seconds. I was in the middle of giving one of D's customers change (my primary occupation of the day), when out of the corner of my eye I noticed some activity near my clothes.

Finally! Someone with taste! Finally, someone "petite"!

I finished the transaction and looked over to see the first person of the day to show any interest in my clothes.

I saw...


(Are you ready for this? It's good.)


A MIDGET.