How Flea Markets Taught Me to Dream After Divorce

When spring arrived, after a spherical of antibiotics had me again on my ft, my dad and I began going to flea markets once more. It was a welcome diversion from mendacity on the sofa, binge-watching episodes of Home, feeling a deep sense of camaraderie each time somebody raised their eyebrows and mentioned the phrase, “parasite.” Additionally, by then I had developed a modestly sized pregnant stomach that I believed — in a brand new and pain-free burst of appreciation for all times — regarded cute in maternity denims. As I strolled by the oriental rugs, the chipped wash basins, the Kewpie dolls, and the rows and rows of collectable Loony Tunes glassware, I questioned if, now that I had a home and a rising household, I ought to need a few of these issues, or not less than discover room for them in my home fantasies. However I may already see that the vintage highchair can be a nightmare to scrub, the tea set would accumulate mud within the cabinet, and though I believed that the kitschy chalkware skunk was cute, I didn’t have any significant motive for liking it. I imagined returning residence with any of this stuff and dealing with the look of full incomprehension on my husband’s face, adopted by his irritation after I inevitably did not put them to make use of. It was as if the second I discovered one thing attention-grabbing, any need to personal it was quashed by the data that my life couldn’t maintain superfluidity of any type. My home, I knew, was already a multitude, so any extra try at attraction or décor can be misguided, misplaced within the chaos, and on the very least, undeserved. My power was additionally low, and simply the considered shopping for one thing — even one thing as inconsequential as a pin or a glass marble — then discovering a spot to place it, retaining monitor of its existence, was paralyzing. 



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