Day 6 of my 30 day Novelty Nervous System Challenge: Early Morning Flea Market

The early bird gets the worm, they say, but what they don't tell you is that sometimes the worm is still buried beneath layers of possibility, waiting in black trash bags yet to be opened.

6:15 AM found Eden and me driving toward Paramount, chasing the coveted Princess Polly pieces at $5 each—a brand that speaks her language of affordable elegance, a treasure hunt that had become ritual for her and our neighbor, a fashion major who understands the alchemy of turning thrift into style. For me, this was virgin territory: my first flea market expedition since college and never during the opening hour.

The caravan of trucks arriving alongside us told the story before we even parked—setup was still unfolding, vendors emerging from sleep into the democracy of buying and selling. But instead of frustration, we found opportunity. While our target booth had just opened their van’s back doors getting ready to unload black bags pregnant with possibility, we wandered.

Sometimes the greatest discoveries come not from our intended destinations but from the willingness to let curiosity lead. We stumbled into a wholesale wonderland where vendors, still arranging their offerings, were willing to negotiate in real-time. This became our unexpected jackpot—the highlight treasure that proved the universe rewards those who show up before the world is fully awake.

Returning to our Princess Polly pilgrimage, we entered what I can only describe as archaeological fashion excavation. Forty-five minutes of sorting through layers of fabric and potential, Eden with her trained eye seeking three specific grails while I learned the particular patience of hunt-and-hope. Piece by piece, we unearthed our bounty: a tank and shorts for me, and for her—a dress for one of her seven weddings this summer, bodysuit, cropped top, and two pairs of wide-legged pants (denim and white linen).

By 8 AM we were home, treasure secured, and I still had time to honor my weightlifting commitment with my training partner. The nervous system had tasted something entirely new: the particular electricity of a flea market awakening, the intimacy of shared hunting with my daughter, the satisfaction of finding gold in what others might see as chaos.

What struck me most was the rhythm of it all—how the early morning energy felt both urgent and unhurried, how the act of searching became its own form of presence. The flea market exists in a liminal space where time moves differently, where value is negotiated not just in dollars but in stories, connections, and the simple willingness to dig deeper into possibility.

Some mornings transformation happens in the gym. Others, it happens in parking lots at dawn, sorting through overstock to help pay the bills of flea market vendors to find exactly what we didn't know we were looking for.

Not bad for a weekday morning adventure, indeed. Sometimes the best novelty comes disguised as necessity, wrapped in the ordinary magic of showing up early and staying curious.