Oh my god, am I sick of packing. And unpacking too, and re-packing, and any activity that has "packing" in its name (meatpacking?), and I know it's a little hard to feel sorry for me---waaah! I'm always going somewhere!---but boy howdy, please try for a second, because man. I hate packing. I would rather come over to your house and clean your baseboards with a toothbrush and mop up that one spot where your dog barfed all over the nice rug than stare into the empty void of my suitcase again and contemplate what to put it into it. Seriously, what should I put into my suitcase? Go on, suggest something: a black tank top, a pair of flipflops, a clove of garlic and a bag of kitty litter, it doesn't matter, I just need something.
The thing about this trip is that it's actually a vacation rather than a work trip (oh, alright then, Chicago was a vacation too.....and so, come to think of it, was L.A., so really I don't have a leg to stand on there, never mind) so technically I should be chilling out already and not worrying about it. My new philosophy, actually, is just to roll with the punches---I told Sean that the other day, and he said "um, that's not really a new philosophy, I've been doing that forever," and I said "no, but it's new to me"---and yet I'm not really rolling with these particular punches at all. Unless standing in the middle of your bedroom shouting I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO WHERE SHOULD I START is rolling with the punches. Is it? No, I didn't think so. Neither is sitting on the sofa writing a blog post while a half-empty suitcase languishes in the other room and a load of laundry sits sodden in the washer.
(Incidentally, my mother was all "eh, don't do any laundry before you come, just bring it all back here with you." Which, fine, yes, works alright if you're an 18-year-old college student driving home for the weekend with a laundry basket on the back seat of your Dodge Neon, but can you imagine if my bag was selected for a random search at Customs between San Francisco and Singapore and the officer opened it up to find a week's worth of dirty workout clothes? OH, THE SHAME.)
I know all I really need, of course, is a bathing suit or two, a good book, and my enormous collection of sunscreen-type things (I am determined to spend the next ten days doing little more than reading by the swimming pool; trust me, I have already seen everything there is to see in Singapore, most of it more than once) but there are several obstacles holding me back: for instance, I still have no idea what I'm wearing to Luke and Susie's graduation. It's a pretty fancy graduation---with cocktails and dinner and dancing---and usually this is the kind of thing I'd plan for months in advance, but because I've been so busy working and traveling so much recently, I'm pretty much all "black dress? Eh, I guess so."
(Thumbs up? Thumbs down? What do you think? It's boring, but it fits well and I could wear some silver shoes---if my sister lets me borrow them, ahem---and carry a turquoise clutch and maybe wear some turquoise earrings and pretend it's all meant to go together like that. Or hell, I could scrawl some fake tattoos on my face in eyeliner to liven the whole thing up a little. Or scars! Or a mustache!)
Once I get on the plane, it'll all be fine, I know---plus I'm flying Singapore Airlines, my favorite airline in the world, and one that actually made Sean wistful because he loves it so much (can you imagine saying that about United or its ilk?)---but it's just this day and a half I have left of packing and organizing and finishing up work that's stressing me out. At least I have another spray tan booked for tomorrow after work, though, because man, you know how relaxing it is to do the Macarena in a small metal booth while trying not to breathe in clouds of chemical-laced fake tan. Wearing nothing but a grimace and a shower cap.