Don't Sell My Underwear

I love garage, and estate sales; the hunt for the bargain, the unusual. I love to dicker, and try to keep current on what "used stuff" is selling for.

Harriett, a very dear friend with cancer, knowing my penchant for sales, asked me to help her organize her lifetime of stuff.  She wanted to give certain goodies to family members, and friends, and make specific donations. She talked about an estate sale, "Only after I'm gone, dear.", and thought it ought to do well. She had a lot of cookbooks, and beautiful serving pieces that she figured would sell for a tidy sum. We discussed quite a bit that day, and I was feeling a heavy weight in my heart from all this talk of "What to do after I go to see the Lord".

I think my friend sensed this, and our talk went on to other, less heartfelt things. A while later however, she broached the subject again, with a bold, "Don't sell my underwear!" I giggled, then frowned, and asked her to explain. She said to donate all her under-things to a charitable store. She did not want people rummaging through her "unmentionables in my own home” and didn't want men seeing her bras. It would just be too embarrassing. I didn't remind her that she wouldn't be around to witness the sale of her things, but told her I would honor the request.

My friend passed away quietly, donations were made, friends received their due, and her cookbooks sold quickly. As promised, I made sure her unmentionables were given away, never to be pawed or tittered over.

Since then, every time I find potentially embarrassing personal items at a sale, I think of my friend, and hope the owner of the current lot of underwear isn't looking down, mortified by their things being viewed by strangers.   

At a recent estate sale, I came across an interesting looking box with a $5.00 price tag on the lid. I unzipped it, hoping for an exciting find, only to come face to face with a breast. Yes, a breast, which I was sure belonged to the recently departed.

Now, I have a warped sense of humor, and thought of all the jokes and gags I could accomplish with this breast, and as quickly as those thoughts entered my head, they flew out, followed by Harriett's voice scolding me.

I quickly closed the box, zipped it shut, and hid it in the far corner of the closet. I understand the embarrassment in having people seeing your underwear, but I was not even able to fathom the horror, and possibly shame at having such a deeply personal part of you out for all to see. Judging by the clothing styles the woman was elderly, probably from a time when you never even mentioned underwear, much less false body parts.

After another go around the house, looking for missed treasures, I made my way to the cash register, put on my sternest face, told the cashier where I had put the box, and seriously suggested they remove the item from the sale. I could only hope I had made Harriett proud. After all, there are just some things you don't sell.

While I don't plan on leaving this world anytime soon, I have written in bold type, told my children, and their spouses, "Don't sell my underwear!" I suppose now, I need to update my final requests with an emphatic, "Don't sell any false body parts either!"