Penchant for Sadness.

I've got a friend who frequently refers to "ennui." I feel pretensous using that word, though it is the most apt description of what I feel so frequently. I've found that when I have a bout of the bittersweet prelude to depression, I like to go through antique stores. My favorites are the massive antique malls with hundreds of stalls. I like that you have absolutely no way to predict what will be inside, and that you have to be willing to spend a lot of time looking to really see everything that they have to offer. I love the bizarre handicrafts that find their way there, as if everyone has desperately been seeking hand-knit yellow yarn coasters, or a babydoll's head fashioned in a window in a suitcase. I love the old games, and how very topical they were at one point in time. I love that people genuinely seem to think that I'm going to spend $65 on an old pack of Welcome Back, Kotter trading cards with the gum still intact. I think the best part is coming across something you used to have, and being overwhelmed by all of the associations you have with it. And of course, I love the whole wtf element of any antique store. Why do people keep the things that they do? And why was so much of purchased by antique traders to pass on to others? So much of it is just odd garbage that really needs nothing more than a quick trip to the rubbish bin.
By the way, today's purchases included a Sesame Street plastic plate I recall eating my breakfasts off of from the age of two until Kindergarten, an early 80s Monchichi (he's special; he's red, and yes, I sang the jingle to the man selling him who reminded me of a verse I'd forgotten), and several 1960s Playboys that will serve as a Valentine's Day gift for the Fiance.