Pack 'em up, move 'em out

The lights are dim, the TV is on and my contact lenses are in as I wake up on the couch, fuzzy-headed and frizzy-haired. My better half, who lulled me to slumber in the first place, has wisely relocated to bed. I glance at the clock: sweet Jesus, it's 3:00 a.m. All I need to do is remove my contacts, now adhered to my eyeballs, and I can drift back to sleep.

And then I remember: we are leaving for Houston in a few hours. I have to pack. With that last word, I am wide awake.

I love to travel, near or far. Just give me a destination (this is crucial: my sense of direction is worthless) and I'm on my way. Oh, sure; the pull of the road is loosened somewhat when the trio of howler monkeys in the row behind us becomes unglued, but that hasn't put a damper on my wanderlust. Let's go! Or, au francais: allons-y!

But the packing's another story. In theory, I like the order of it all: miniature bottles of goo and potions, hermetically sealed into ziploc bags; underwear in one pocket, shoes in another and coordinated outfits in orderly stacks. Pulling it all together, however, makes me want to fling myself dramatically onto the bed and beg or bribe Trey to take care of it for me.

At certain points in our relationship, I'm ashamed to admit, I used to do just that. Every so often, he would actually indulge me, usually when the stakes were high. Example: the driver is downstairs and the plane will leave for Rome without us if our bags are not filled and sealed, pronto. This scenario played out more than once.

Now, the stakes are still present (if we don't coordinate our departure with naptime, the muppers will revolt, and we'll be forced to eat dinner at some icky sticky roadside Dairy Queen) but are far less pressing. And even an indulgent man has his limits.

So I'm on my own. Hunting and gathering clothes large and small, which necessitates multiple loads of laundry, matching socks to shoes, picking out toys that might briefly stem a wailing jag or interrupt a backseat dispute, and setting aside sippy cups and snacks for the same reasons.

Or I could write this instead and then be a super-efficient, non-procrastinating one-woman packing machine in the morning.

That's the ticket.

Wherever you go, even if it's just to the grocery store for the eleventh time in 72 hours, I wish you safe travels on this Thanksgiving weekend.

Much love, F5