A couple of weekends ago, some friends of ours got married. The wedding itself was equal parts moving and charming, as weddings should be. My favorite part of the wedding weekend, though, happened the night before the ceremony.
The bride and groom had arranged for an hors d’oeuvres reception on a hotel terrace the evening that guests were arriving, so everyone could have a drink and casually get to know each other. Eventually, the bridal party joined the buzzing crowd. As dusk fell and the lights of Notre Dame glowed on the horizon the groom walked through the crowd singing one note, and one man after another joined him until there were about fifteen of them in the middle of the crowd—breaking into perfect harmony.
I think their first song was something about the moral dangers of playing pool—clearly a crowd pleaser from their college days, complete with one guy in the front gesticulating and making eye contact with the crowd. It is so rare to see a group of men—especially young men—with that kind of coordination and dedication to one purpose that isn’t a sport. The demographic ranged from “fresh-faced college soccer player” to “guy who could really help with your math homework” to “definitely an Eagle Scout in high school,” with a wide variety of races and heights. What didn’t vary was the wholehearted intensity with which they were singing—when they were performing they were completely present to the song.
There is something about any performance that I find incredibly moving—I tend to fall in love with every live performer I ever see, no matter how objectively subpar the performance. But when it’s a group, especially any kind of motley crew, it always tugs at my heartstrings even more. This group of boys had come from all over the country to be at their friend’s wedding, and they were doing what they all did best—singing—to celebrate him.
I had a couple of run-ins with Facebook Marketplace before my current binge—selling a bike that did work and a printer that didn’t (I didn’t know it didn’t work before I sold it, but I did give the girl’s money back) while at university in Scotland. But now that I live in the Detroit metro area, Facebook Marketplace has become a way of life. My husband and I sold a couch to a man starting a cigar lounge who drove up with a U-Haul full of couches; we sold a chair to a Subaru-driving transplant from the Pacific Northwest who appreciated its vintage flair (being completely worn out) in a way that I did and my husband did not; we gave away a bed when its purchaser showed up with no tools and a compelling story about getting back on his feet. We also have a very high-performing listing for the guitar that I won in a library raffle when I was 12, which is not at all valuable but people seem to really want.
In return we have purchased two under-couch tables, at least one of which I use every day, an IKEA cube shelf that resolved a major struggle in our tiny home (storage), an automatic cat feeder I picked up for free and have never used once, and a litter box for which the owner gave me a long explanation of how to use when I came to pick it up. (He also tried to sell me a Theragun.) Just in case a gem such as these comes up again, I check Facebook Marketplace a couple of times a day, and in the process I usually brighten my day considerably.
Here are a few real listings I have seen on Facebook Marketplace (or even more chaotically, elsewhere on Facebook):
Facebook Marketplace is like a garage sale of the 1500 people who live nearest to you, and that means it is a glorious slice of life. There are so many unfinished stories: the Longaberger basket parade, someone’s many Christmases with the VINTGAGE nativity set, the skeleton in the living room. It’s a random amalgamation of many lives, brought together in the only place where you can buy a used ramen cup for $89.
The fact is, selling your stuff is intensely personal. One of my favorite things on Facebook Marketplace is when people include extraneous adjectives in their listings, indicating that either they are hesitant to let it go or desperate to get rid of it. “VERY nice VINTGAGE Nativity Set.” “Vintage Enamel clown Brooch. The legs swing from side to side. This is really unique!” 95 empty Zyn containers for $1 (“Good for anyone trying to make something out of these.”) People who list something on Facebook Marketplace want something in return—not just money. They want someone to acknowledge that the thing they are letting go of is something valuable. It made sense that they had it. In that sense, it’s a profoundly relationship-oriented phenomenon.
The most obvious way that Facebook Marketplace and glee clubs are alike is, of course, the sheer delight that they inspire in the human condition. Humans are so funny—and interesting—and delightful. The very differences between us are one of the most charming things about us. We can constantly inspire and surprise one another with interest in the most random things, and interest in random things can beget more interest in those things, or in the people who are interested in those things. I’m sure there’s some take hovering here from Rene Girard’s theory of mimetic desire, how we want things that other people have. When I see a listing on Facebook Marketplace, at the very least I know that is a real, physical object that someone saw worthy to buy at one point. And that in itself makes it charming to me.
They also make the world full of potential. Anything you see could eventually end up on Facebook Marketplace (including a Longaberger basket parade float). Any crowd you are in could spontaneously burst into song (as they frequently did in the flash-mob era of 2012). That makes everyday life a little bit more magical, rife with the possibility of connection. Life is not just about ordering new stuff on Amazon and building your atomistic existence. We are all interconnected, and the moments that shines through are the moments when I am most thrilled to be a human being.
Come back in two weeks: to find out why sourdough bread is like the Olympics.
I found a really hilarious typo: unfortunately for you guys, just before this went out I realized I had dubbed it the “weeding weekend” in the last sentence of my first paragraph. Different kind of weekend.
I just received: this incredible cookbook as a gift. You know it’s a good cookbook when they work picnics into the opening pages:
