Love is unique and entirely mundane

A transparent exchange afforded by three consenting partners: cash, broker, and consumer.

Materialism is the most honest form of love. Because it tells no lies. It hides nothing. It offers nothing else but objective possession. A transparent exchange. 1-for-1.

It’s Wednesday morning and I’m walking between my three local op shops: the Vinnies, the Uturn, and the Red Cross in Rozelle. It's restock day, and I've managed to pull myself out of bed in time to beat the Depop thrifters and after-school crowd.

I’m a committed thrifter, and today is buy day. My bi-monthly ecological, guilt-free closet injection. It’s a ritual that I take very seriously, and one of the few consistent splurges I allow myself since I made the switch to only buying recycled clothing.

I love op shops. Everything about them. The goofy trinkets, the freaky clothes, the funky smell. That thick mix of sweat, dust, and cheap detergent. I find it intoxicating, totally inspiring. It hits me like a popper every time I walk inside.

They are important. Institutional. An essential service for those in need of affordable clothing, and a sustainable alternative to fast fashion.

More than this, they are time capsules. Ephemeral galleries of tactile memory, and an in between place for the fashions of yesteryear.

Today I start where I always do: the Red Cross.

It’s a smaller shop. They sell plainer items, more practical than the usual thrift fare. Smart ties, belts, dress shirts, and hospitality shoes. Not always my speed but worth a look, and there’s always something fun on the shelves.

Today’s highlight is a pair of sequined cowgirl boots.

They’re well worn but well kept; pretty in a charming, naive way. They’re not my size, unfortunately. And I doubt I could pull them off. But I find them absolutely magnetic, and I wonder what brought them here.

It makes me think.

When I was six I wanted to be a superhero. And so, naturally, my guncles bought me a pair of light up sneakers. Black-and-red, Velcro-strapped, hot white piping around the soles. Totally, totally radical. I’d wear them to school, the park, sport, anywhere. You could not have told six year old me that any pair of shoes on earth was more valuable or fashionable.

I imagine at one point these baby boots meant much the same to the little girl whose parents donated them.

I’m at the Uturn now, across Victoria Road, and I’ve made my way to the dress section. Specifically, to look at wedding dresses.

Op shop wedding dresses hold a special place in my heart. They’re intriguing, exciting; they beg questions and hint always at some irreparable, irretrievable history. And they always stick out, far and distant from the usual piles of dirty t-shirts and sneakers.

Today there are seven. An unusually big catalogue. All distinctly different, but undeniably fabulous. One has ribbons, another leopard print. My favourite resembles a modest dominatrix. Leather straps and pearls.

Standing in front of these dresses, I like to imagine where they came from. Lost luggage? High-end deadstock? Broken homes? Loving ones?

The latter strikes me as an unlikely pipeline. A wedding dress, after all, does not seem like something you give away.

It is, by all means, the ultimate hoardable.

A reminder of the day you made yourself the most important person in your universe. A relic of your most selfish, elite, and transient moment. They seem, by all logic, absolutely undonatable.

And yet here they are. Dry cleaned and tagged.

A quick search on Gumtree tells me this is not unique. At the time of my writing this, there are 1334 wedding dresses for sale. 973 of those are used.