Packing Frenzy

We're packing today. I hate packing. For so many reasons, I absolutely despise packing. I don't like leaving a place I've gotten comfortable in. I hate saying goodbye. The finality of putting everything in bags and boxes is incredibly stressful. The list of things to do before leaving is always endless, never all ticked off, always of utmost importance.

And it drives me crazy when all my stuff gets jumbled together.

All the clean things touch the not-so-clean things, and the not-so-clean things touch the not-so-dirty things and the dirty things, and everything gets squished together into boxes and suitcases. Then the boxes and bags get dragged all over the floor, then outside, and then touch each other in the car, and whoever is packing handles it all and then touches door knobs and handles and shoes and hand bags and maybe even the baby's car seat, or the baby....

I do my best to keep on top of it all. I pack the 'dirty' stuff on its own, in disposable bags that can be thrown away at the other end. I arm myself with Ziploc bags: everything 'very clean' goes into its own Ziploc. But I don't have enough Ziplocs for all the 'just clean' stuff, so that ends up touching the 'not-so-clean' stuff. My frustrated mind accuses and whirrs excitedly: when I unpack, I probably won't wash my hands between touching the outsides of the plastic bags and taking the 'very clean' items out... or at least, I shouldn't.

And no matter how quickly I zip around the house or how frantically I talk and explain what can't touch what, or even how fast I do or don't wash my hands between all the categories of 'clean' and 'not-so-clean,' there is no way I will preempt every possible packing/touching faux-pas that my poor husband will, very innocently, make.

And that, my friends, is why I hate packing.