Monday, August 29, 2011

How I Hurt My Ankle Looking at Playboy Magazine

So I am walking in the front door of one my flea markets with the intent to clean up my booth after a weekend of shopping carnage.  (The first rule of flea marketing: stock on Friday, clean up the mess on Monday)  I have a thousand things to do as usual, and I am focused on my mission until I open the door and see straight ahead of me a short stack of vintage Playboy magazines.

One of my weird quirks is that most of the time, I don't know how I think or feel about something until a good ten or 15 minutes after something happens that bothers me. Literally, it takes me 15 minutes to even know if I'm mad about something and by then, the thing is usually over. Which makes for some pretty hilarious marital fights sometimes.

In this case, my task was exactly 15 minutes. So I'm in my booth, cleaning up, fixing, arranging, simmering.

"Were those really Playboy magazines right inside the front door? I know people collect them. I've seen them around here before.  But usually in a box. With a wrapper. Those were just sitting there at eye level.  Right at the front door. Don't you have to have a permit or something for those? I think porn was on the list of things you can't sell at the other flea market.  I know they are vintage, but ewww. Seriously...ewwww.  Where have they been all these years and who has touched them?  Ewwww.  GERMS!  EWWWWWWW!   That's what we want at the front door? Welcome to the store! Have a dirty magazine! In fact, stand right here at the front counter for all the world to see you! Who does that?!" 
As I get ready to leave with a handful of stuff in my arms, I turn my back to the front door, giving myself a parting glance at the Playboy magazines, making sure I really saw what I thought I saw.  In one swift, graceful moment,  I push on the door with my back, I slide my foot back to clear the threshold.... I miss.  I catch my foot on the textured rug, I roll my ankle all the way over so the knobby ankle bones kiss the welcome mat.  I keep my feet but know that something doesn't feel right. 

Burning through my usual mental haze is the realization that I have just turned an ankle because of Playboy magazines. 

At home, I call the manager.  "I'm not the most uptight person that will walk in your door. I know they sell.  But the front door?  I won't say another word about it if you decide not to move them, but it just seems like that's not good for business in the long run."  

A week later, my ankle still hurts.

But the magazine are gone. 

And I am the most clumsy moral crusader of all time.


stephanie garcia said...

I'm sorry about your ankle! But think your moral crusade was just great. :) Get well soon!

Mother B said...

That's my're a hoot!

Holly said...

You are funny and awesome.

Keri said...

This is going to leave a smile on my face for the rest of the day, that and your mom called you 'a hoot' :)

Sandra Turvey said...

Sorry about your ankle, but good for you. I also commented on them when I was at the flea market the other day. I'm sooo glad they are gone. I burned 4 big boxes of them 21 years ago after my husband died. Everyone said they were worth so much money and wow did I enjoy that bonfire.

Holly said...

1. Yesterday I stepped down off the curb near the Square with Lucy in my hands getting ready to put her in the car. The road/curb were a bit disjointed and I thought I'd majorly hurt my ankle. I didn't drop the toddler but I thought of you.
2. My only visit to that thrift store was good and a big part of why it was good: THE OLD MUSIC. And I don't mean 50s. I complimented the lady on it cuz it really did make me want to stay and shop. Also, it was a bonus that some of the booths were half off which is why I came home with a trunk full of loot.

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