Garage sales are a very personal thing. You lay out your possessions on tables and tubs and wait for people's approval. You watch them handle your things, clothes worn by your babies, knick-knacks collected when you were a child, pre-baby clothes you will never fit into again. They hold them up for inspection and sometimes they tuck them under their arm for purchase, and sometimes they toss them back carelessly, deeming them not worth the 25 cents on the tag.
You secretly think suckah! when your fish tank goes for fifty dollars. Because you know the hood is broke and my gawd that thing is filthy. You wonder why your perfectly good couch doesn't sell. You start to get desperate towards the end of the day and offer bags stuffed full of clothes for five bucks a piece. It's not the money you want, its the space. That clutter needs to be gone. To make way for new and more shiny clutter of course.
At the end of the day you tally your haul and split it up between yourself and your best girlfriend. The one who brought over an entire thrift store of clothes and baby gear and sat in the hundred degree heat with you for eight hours. You both shove the remaining items back in the garage, mentally making notes about what should be donated, what should be freecycled, and what should just be trashed. And its over. Items that were just this morning on your kitchen counter are on another kitchen counter. Your children's t-shirts are being thrown in the washer to be worn by another child tomorrow. Your fish tank is being furiously scrubbed in hopes of giving another fish more room to breath.
And that's what you have. More room to breath.
And an excuse to shop.