The Local Flea Market Sends Manda to the Dark Place

The Londonderry Flea Market might be where dreams go to die. The Suz and I ventured forth this fine New England afternoon to wander past tables upon tables of-- how do I put this?-- crap.

VHS tapes. Computer parts from 1987. Designer handbags with a K*. Plastic toys. An old gumball machine. An entire table of Beanie Babies. Bootleg Red Sox t-shirts. Doll's heads. Headless dolls. Frayed plastic flower arrangements.

I got the sense this was the end of the line for these items. Aisle after aisle of stuff that wouldn't make the cut to get donated to charity. The detritus left over at the end of a thousand yard sales, placed on tables marked "Free" at the curb, to be taken here.

And this is what happens to all of these things that we buy on impulse because we're told we're supposed to want them. These things that children beg for through November and December and discard by January 12. These things that are supposed to make up for whatever is really missing from our lives.

I have a house full of these things. And lately, I have undertaken the rather daunting task of shedding myself of what I don't need, because I'm beginning to suspect that these things I don't need are the very things that might keep me from getting to the things I do need.

These books have failed to distract me from my dissatisfaction with my job. These DVDs have failed to replace the friends I have lost. The vast CD collection isn't getting me to more interesting locations. Those cute shoes didn't bring about the return of the long lost love of my life. That wall hanging didn't make up for the fight I had with my mom. That lovely teapot couldn't resurrect the dead.

We buy stuff we don't need and maybe don't even especially want, because we think that will make us happier. And when we're not happier, we buy more stuff. And eventually it ends up on a table in a field in New Hampshire, where it doesn't inspire happiness so much as despair.