There’s a moment after every yard sale where you take stock of your earnings, look around at what’s left, and decide whether it was all worth it.
This year, I made about $100.
And currently, as I sit here with itchy eyes, a sore throat, and a nose that has completely given up on functioning like a normal body part, I would like to formally say: I’m not sure it was.
Last Saturday was one of those deceptively perfect Oklahoma days. Sunshine, light breeze, just enough warmth to trick you into thinking you should spend all day outside like a person who has their life together.
So I did.
I set up tables. I rearranged tables. I sat outside. I stood outside. I talked to people outside. I spent, conservatively, 8 to 10 straight hours fully immersed in what I can only assume was pure, unfiltered pollen.
At the time, it felt productive. Responsible, even.
People stopped by all day, the early birds looking for deals, the casual browsers just out enjoying the weather, the people from out of state here just for the 500 mile sale, the ones who tell you “I don’t need anything” and then somehow still leave with an armful. There’s something about a yard sale that feels less like shopping and more like a rotating front porch visit.
You catch up with people you haven’t seen in a while. You meet folks you didn’t know before. You swap stories, make small talk, and for a few hours, everything feels a little slower in the best way.
I even met the great-grandson of the woman who made the stained glass window in my attic.
It was a good day.
But allergy season is nothing if not patient.
It doesn’t hit you right away. No, that would be too kind.
Instead, it waits.
It lets you finish your yard sale. It lets you count your money. It lets you feel just a little bit accomplished.
And then it absolutely levels you.
By Sunday, it started creeping in. That faint scratch in the throat. The first sneeze that feels a little too aggressive to ignore. The subtle realization that your eyes feel… weird.
By Monday, it’s over.
You wake up feeling like you’ve been personally attacked by a tree you’ve never even met. Your head is foggy. Your voice is questionable. Your sinuses are doing things that should probably require a permit.
And suddenly that $100 is staring back at you like, “This seemed like a better idea at the time.”
I keep trying to do the math on it.
Eight to ten hours outside. One full week of allergy suffering. Several (dozen) boxes of tissues. At least one moment where I seriously consider just removing my nose entirely for convenience.
For $100. That’s not even factoring in the emotional damage of realizing the one thing you didn’t sell is the thing you’re now side-eyeing the hardest.
There’s also something deeply humbling about realizing you willingly signed up for this. No one forced me to sit outside all day. No one said, “Hey, go breathe in as much pollen as possible and see what happens.”
I did that to myself.
And I’ll probably do it again.
Because that’s the cycle. We forget. We get one nice day and think, “It’ll be fine.” We romanticize being outside. We convince ourselves we’re stronger than seasonal allergies.
We are not.
The trees are organized. The grass is relentless. The wind is an accomplice.
And yet, give it a few weeks, and I’ll be right back outside, acting like I didn’t just lose a full week of my life to itchy eyes and regret.
So yes, I made $100 at my yard sale.
And yes, I am currently paying for it in ways that feel wildly disproportionate.
But I cleared out a little space, saw a lot of friendly faces, and had a lot of fun along the way.
And I guess that counts for something.
Be kind to your neighbors, Be kind to your pets, And for the love of everything, respect the pollen count.