I made my first sale to Dupont Circle’s Secondi last summer. Weighed down by shopping bags full of T-shirts, pants, and skirts, I struggled up the store’s stairs and presented my bounty to one of the fashionable employees. Since I had never consigned with them before, the employee offered to go through my clothes with me so that I knew what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

Slowly and methodically, she picked through my clothing, tossing the desirables into one pile and the rejects into another. First, she read the label (Banana Republic, yes; Forever 21, no). She inspected each garment from collar to hem, searching for stains, holes, and imperfections of any kind. It was a grueling process. Every skirt was scrutinized, every tank top appraised. It was as if my very essence was being evaluated. Or at least my taste.

Full disclosure, I brought a certain arrogance to my first appointment. Wait until Secondi sees these gems, I thought, these treasures I’ve plucked from my bottom drawer. I expected gratitude and awe. What I got was indifference, pity, and just a whiff of disdain.

It took seven months for me to brave Secondi again. A couple days ago, I went back, this time with a smaller bag of clothing and ready to fend off the slings and arrows of sartorial snobbishness. I have to say, it was surprisingly painless. Now that I’m an experienced consigner, all I have to do is list my clothing and hand it over. No public inspections or rejections. No affirmations, either, but I guess I’ll have to learn to live with that.