I dream I am artist, painting in vivid colors the wrapping of treasured belongings in tissue, gently placing each item in a secure nook, guaranteed to be undamaged in an upcoming move.
That is a dream. Reality is more of a nightmare when it comes to packing, moving, relocating, and deciding what stays and what goes.
After a lifetime of changing places where I abide, one would think I would be a master of folding, discarding, tucking, and organizing what is important to pack today and what should not be placed in a box for transport until the morning of the move.
For instance, how much laundry soap do I want to haul to a new place, and hope it doesn’t leak or spill on my third pair of running shoes I haven’t worn in 5 years, but might be good for gardening, if I have a garden?
Should I combine 8 bottles of various brands of shampoos ending with maybe 45 drops of a mixture of hair cleanser that may congeal before finding it again in 2022? Or just toss them all and buy a new bottle once settled?
Am I going to eat the remaining tuna salad from 4 days ago before the movers show up, or feed it to the doglet and pray his stomach is stronger than mine?
You see, these decisions are challenging, especially if I am going to move in another 30 days. How many pair of socks or underwear will I need for a month, and if 6 pair of each is all I need, then why do I have 18 pair of mismatched socks and 21 panties? What am I doing with all this stuff?
I wish I could answer these questions, but instead, I stand in front of my closet, with a near empty box staring at me as I contemplate my excesses.
The result, everything is tossed into the box, no order, no plan, no idea what is where, and I quickly tape it up and hope for the best.
The vivid colors of packing, once dreamed about, are now turning into a modernistic free for all, as though multi-painted human bodies have been rolled around on a canvas with the hope someone will find it interesting and entertaining when it is unpacked and displayed.
My fear is I might put the frozen chicken feet in the box that won’t be opened until February of next year that also houses my prized t-shirt collections. Nothing worse than stinky outerwear decorated with chicken toes.
Take my word for that.