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"When I&amp;#039;ve had enough of my Doris Day domestic duties... When the kids have been patted on the head and sent off for a fine day of American education... When the floors are swept, the counters dusted and the living room vacuumed... When beds have been made, trash dumped, and the dish washer fully emptied, it&amp;#039;s only fitting that I cast aside good girl Andrea and release the dirty girl within. This means some red lipstick and a dab of perfume. I don my sunglasses, fire up the SUV and, despite many internal promises to abstain from this guilty pleasure, I drive to my destination. I step out, my heart beating faster for the excitement that lies within - silky surprises, leather, and never to be underestimated, hard wood. It&amp;#039;s enchanting, exhilarating and unabashedly cheap. Despite its bad reputation, I clutch this place close to my heaving chest. It&amp;#039;s my constant beacon of support, always available to soothe my aching soul when I can&amp;#039;t take one more day of mommy hood or wifedom. It is, of course, my local thrift store. What started as an easy way to stretch my dollars early in my marriage blossomed into a full fledged passion. My husband prefers to call it an addiction, but my hobby has very little of the negative consequences associated with addictions. I don&amp;#039;t need to mortgage my house to pay for it, but I am able to fill it with beautiful furniture (and the occasional vintage Melco turkey platter - how can I resist?) I consistently get a spring in my step without having to resort to alcohol, drugs or compulsive retail shopping. I chat with interesting people, from high end movie set decorators looking to recreate a 1960&amp;#039;s classroom for a big budget picture, to young mothers like myself (hey, 38 is not OLD) who are paying for preschool by buying their Polo twin sets for $2.35 rather than $85/pop. Occasionally I&amp;#039;ll find the same homeless man digging through the trash at the Baskin Robbins next door. He&amp;#039;s about my husband&amp;#039;s age. I can&amp;#039;t help but wonder what kind of life led him to his old shoes, stained Dockers and two month-old old neck scruff. I can only have empathy and thank God that I frequent thrift stores for sport, not survival. With gratefulness comes perspective. When my husband, all groomed and shiny, enters our home at the end of a long day, and the kids wrap their grimy arms around his drycleaned pants, I breathe in a sigh of relief. How did I get so fortunate? At night, when he&amp;#039;s wrapping his arms around me, I&amp;#039;m even more aware of my luck. Rex views me with even more of a twinkle than I view my local resale shops. Like my favorite haunts, I&amp;#039;m not shiny and new anymore. Yet, he still finds me irresistible. And even better than the thrift stores, I&amp;#039;m 100% free. Now that&amp;#039;s a gift that keeps on giving. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/relationships/a2363/when-i-think-about-you-i-touch/>