On Packing

There are not many things I hate.  Okay, I take that back, who am I kidding?  There are a lot of things I hate.  Yes, I know, ‘hate’ is a strong word, but I really do hate these things.

-         Folding fitted sheets (BTW – can anyone under the age of 50 actually perform this feat with any level of precision?  My theory is that we have evolved and lost this ability.)  I try my best but they always look a mess.  Sorry, mom.  I really do try.

-          Frying bacon.  Worth every minute of careful cooking and laborious clean up, though.  

-        Talking on the phone.  My job is relationship driven.  I spent a LOT of time on the phone at work which I do with a smile on my face and a song in my voice (co-workers may roll eyes now).  However, I do have a Pavlovian cringe-type response every time the phone rings.  Personally, if I ever spend any time at all on the phone with you, it means I really, really love you.  Because I really, really hate talking on the phone.  I can, however, talk for hours nonstop in person.

-          Being wrong.  But it happens so infrequently that it is hardly worth a mention.

-         Costumes.  I am a firm believer that adults should not wear costumes of any kind.  If you are a woman over the age of 25 and have dressed as Whore Nurse, Whore Gretel, Whore Teacher, Whore Dorothy, Whore Witch, Whore Raggedy Ann, Whore Cleopatra, Whore Schoolgirl, or any of the other variety of Whore costumes, please stop.  You are too old.  The wicked irony of this is that I had to wear a costume (not from the Whore line) for a work event.  It was quite possibly the longest, most miserable night of my life (albeit a successful event!).  Annette Benning did show up to help me through the night (not in costume, I will note).  I thought about hacking into our office computer system and destroying all photos so there was no remaining evidence, however, it didn’t seem worth the risk.  I don’t really have that kind of skill either.

-          Mustard.

And I thought, packing.  But I think I may be wrong (infrequent as it may be).

When we went on our house hunting trip a couple of weeks ago, the week prior my mom (Hi Mom!) called me every night and asked, “Have you started packing for your trip yet?”

“Uh, no.”

My mom is the most amazing uber-organized person in the entire world. She can make order from chaos in twenty minutes flat. She can also fold fitted sheets. Unfortunately, I did not inherit this quality.

My idea of packing for an upcoming adventure usually involves dragging the appropriate suitcase out of the closet (we have a lot of suitcases, none of which are the ‘right’ size) the night before embarking.   I generally throw in some clothes; daily change of unders; some concealer and lip gloss; and more often than not, my toothbrush.

But I always thought it was the actual act of packing that I didn’t like.  The putting-things-in-the-suitcase stuff.  But it isn’t.  How do I know this?  Well, because I am in the fortunate position to not really have to pack.  I just have to move things I want to bring to Paris to a central location (like my dining room) and at a specified date (like Friday) the magic movers will come, pack it and ship it off to Paris. Voila!  I have virtually nothing to do and I am still miserable about the entire situation.

This is my dining room right now. Nightmarish, eh?

And, yes, that game of Trivial Pursuit is for you, Annette Benning.

So, since I don’t have to pack and I am still hating this, it must be something else.  I have decided that I don’t really enjoy transitions.

I don’t like to go out.  I just like to be out.

I don’t like to travel.  I just like to be somewhere else.

I don’t like to move.  I just want to live somewhere new.

Perhaps this is why I enjoyed Star Trek so much as a child (confession: and adult).  I like the concept of ‘beaming up.’  I just want to be magically tele-transported elsewhere.  With all of my stuff.

So, I guess I need to learn to say “Beam me up, Scotty” in French.