The truck was all set. The coolers were stuffed with cheesy sandwiches, soggy with their exposure to ice, and all the kids were seated and buckled with their faces engrossed to their oversized iPads. Money? Check. Strollers? Ready to go. Large hunting cages? Check. Once a month my entire family plans a trip to our local flea market and I get dragged along. I like dusty vintage records and stained clothing as much as the next guy, but the idea of endlessly walking around small shops for hours on end is not promising. I guess the poorly made plastic jewelry and the extra salt on those 7 dollar turkey legs is somewhat alluring to my family. And I guess the expired foreign dragonfruit shampoo-like products have some new powerful deep cleansing chemicals I wasn’t aware of? Or maybe
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Although I often disagree with everything my family does and the crazy preparations it chooses to take, I just accept it. If they decide to pack flowering pots and buy a peach tree, I don’t argue, until I am forced to carry it. I have accepted the fact that everyone in my family thinks differently when we come together for the flea market. Everyone has their own individual goals of buying pet ducks, underwater kazoos, plastic jewelry and ancient Aztec cooking pans. These crazy people are my family. Complying is the best I can do whether I like it or not. Although the flea market has a diverse atmosphere that is simply perfect for my family absurd necessities and provides an opportunity for unity, the monthly flea market shopping spree is not necessarily for me. Whenever that first 4am alarm rings I just put on my headphones, stand, watch and hope that I won’t get stuck pushing strollers or carrying the next plastic bag of merchandise. But if I am, I will be proud knowing it won’t be filled with just any ordinary
Although I often disagree with everything my family does and the crazy preparations it chooses to take, I just accept it. If they decide to pack flowering pots and buy a peach tree, I don’t argue, until I am forced to carry it. I have accepted the fact that everyone in my family thinks differently when we come together for the flea market. Everyone has their own individual goals of buying pet ducks, underwater kazoos, plastic jewelry and ancient Aztec cooking pans. These crazy people are my family. Complying is the best I can do whether I like it or not. Although the flea market has a diverse atmosphere that is simply perfect for my family absurd necessities and provides an opportunity for unity, the monthly flea market shopping spree is not necessarily for me. Whenever that first 4am alarm rings I just put on my headphones, stand, watch and hope that I won’t get stuck pushing strollers or carrying the next plastic bag of merchandise. But if I am, I will be proud knowing it won’t be filled with just any ordinary