Lost loves, broken hearts, and the antiques that got away.
I was walking down Royal Street in New Orleans when I spotted a chalkboard easel outside a vintage clothing store that read “Don’t be haunted by the vintage you don’t buy.”
cuffs—made of stiffened cotton, linen, lace, or even starched paper—could be pinned, basted, or buttoned onto sleeves, allowing wearers to refresh their look without laundering an entire garment. Photographs by Quinn Chintis.
Maybe it was because I was in New Orleans—a city where ghost stories, voodoo, and spooky vibes seemingly float on street corners, but the phrase struck a chord. In a few words, a complex emotion was distilled into a cheeky warning. And I’m guessing, if you’re reading ANTIQUES, you’re familiar with this particular form of haunting, too.
Whether you’re a frequent flea market flyer, an auction stalker, an estate sale regular, an antiques mall maniac, or any combination of these, chances are you’ve experienced a “love bite” that flew off: an antique you latched onto but that slipped through your fingers, and you think about every so often. Or if Carrie Bradshaw wrote about relationship advice for antiquers, she would say, “And, just like that, it was gone . . . the one that got away.” Cue exhale.
These little heartbreaks remind me of Craigslist’s “Missed Connections”—a corner of the internet where hopeful hopeless romantics write accounts serving as tiny love letters cast out in hopeful search of a stranger they “connected” with in-person or in their own mind. After all, antiquing isn’t so different from dating: you spot something across a crowded room. It sparks an emotional connection. You imagine your life together—it nestled in a perfect corner in your home. Most of our antique passes are quickly forgotten, but every so often one settles into your mind as regret.
Antiquing asks us to work a little harder and smarter. At sprawling flea markets or antiques shows, there may literally be no second chances (and no going back). Nevertheless, technology continues to soften the heartache. Google Lens, eBay, Etsy, and online marketplaces make it easier than ever to search for (and to virtually stalk) a long-lost love thanks to image matches and keyword searches. But, even if you find a convincing doppelgänger, nothing quite replicates the thrill of discovering an object you love in real life.
As an avid antiquer, this happens to me more often than I’d like to admit. I’ve returned to antiques shops the next day with adrenaline racing to claim a pass. I’ve called antique malls without knowing a dealer’s individual booth number, describing an object from memory, essentially like asking a sales associate to search for a needle in a haystack.
I also DMed my local flea market after leaving behind a pair of “unusual” pink embossed-velvet Victorian cuffs. I described the dealer as best I could and asked whoever manages the Instagram account if they would kindly share his contact information. Weeks later, after being connected with dealer Michael Wolk Laniewski, he unearthed the cuffs in one of his storage units, and we arranged to meet. Back at the flea market, during our transaction, Laniewski told me that the day I first encountered the cuffs, “When I got home later that day, I thought about how good they looked on you. I wished you had bought them!” This reminded me that sometimes the misconnection goes both ways. Dealers want to see their beloved items go to good homes and to folks who adore them.
So what is it about the things we don’t buy that hold such power over us? Is it the fear of missing out? A scarcity mindset? The thrill of the hunt? Or are we simply storytellers, transforming and romanticizing ordinary shopping decisions into epic tales of adventure and woe?
To help answer that question, I phoned an expert. Lesley Finneran, a clinical social worker with a penchant for collecting, explained that for many creative people and people with neurodivergences—including myself—antiquing satisfies our attraction to “novelty chasing.” Hunting for antiques offers purpose, surprise, and the possibility of discovering something someone else overlooked and/or undervalued. It’s a big dopamine rush.
Finneran believes it’s remarkably easy to channel our anxieties, fears, and insecurities into objects. Think of a bride devastated when her “something blue” goes missing on her wedding day. Or Deborah Vance in Hacks, convinced (and persuaded by her psychic) she needs to wear the Bob Mackie jumpsuit Carol Burnett wore during her 1978 series finale, during her own career-defining performance at Madison Square Garden (and nothing else). Something blue and a celebrity-worn suit don’t determine whether a marriage lasts or if a comedy show sells out—they simply become vessels, or imaginary charms, for our human emotions (something objects can’t give us back). Sometimes the antique itself isn’t what we’re missing. It becomes a stand-in for a bad decision, a missed opportunity, or a moment when we didn’t trust ourselves.
and styled them with a button-down shirt and blue jeans for an unexpected modern edge.
We’ve all walked away telling ourselves, You don’t need it, only to spend the next week, two, or three, or perhaps even years, wondering why we didn’t just buy the thing when we had the chance. Finneran’s advice? Give yourself enough time to go through the decision-making process. Don’t rush. Then, trust yourself and your choice. “Sometimes,” she says, “the reason you want something doesn’t have to be profound. Wanting it simply because you want it is enough.” On the flip side, she points out that after regretting an impulsive purchase, we can overcorrect by passing on something we truly love down the road.
I’ll leave you a parting Cinderella story. I heard about a collector of antique beekeeping books who repeatedly found himself outbid by the same bidder. Years later, when his “antiques antagonist” decided to part with his antique beekeeping library, he offered to sell it to the man he’d “competed” against all those years. In this moment, all the books that weren’t chapters in his collection, found their way into his story and into a deserving hive. This is a reminder of the communal nature of collecting. We often (knowingly or unknowingly) intercept someone else’s missed connection.
The lesson? Nothing is impossible. In fact, I think the quiet magic of the universe reveals itself especially well in the antiques world. Every now and then, a missed connection becomes a reconnection—a homecoming and a happily ever after.
If you’re like me and sometimes get stuck in indecision, here’s one piece of advice: you can never take too many photos of an antique that catches your eye. Document your discovery, and don’t hesitate to ask for the dealer’s contact information—most are happy to share it. Just know that if you come back (even a few moments later), the piece may be gone. That’s your cue to let it go.
Maybe that’s the lesson hidden in that chalkboard sign in New Orleans. Don’t be haunted. Don’t let the ghosts move in. The antique that got away isn’t a failure. Someone else found the thing that was meant for them, and you likely own someone’s misconnection that was meant for you.
What’s the antique or vintage piece that got away? Is there a long-lost love you’re still thinking about years later? Email christine@themagazineantiques.com with your story for a chance to be featured—or perhaps we’ll start an antiques “Missed Connections” page of our own.
