In which I reveal about half of my personal flaws

I realized this morning, while groggily pulling clumps of mascara from those tricky lower lashes, that today, two weeks before departure, is the day I had arbitrarily decided to begin packing. And yet somehow, when I set out to do it after supper, I had -- get this -- absolutely no desire to drag out suitcases and put things in them! Is the world imploding?? Has George W. Bush just ministered a gay wedding? Am I no longer interested in hopelessly boring things (reading, loafing, blogging, aspiring to become a librarian)? I suspect I am not suddenly much more interesting but rather just lazy. When anal-retentiveness jousts with sloth, you know the nap is going to win out.

My sister, meanwhile, is packing to leave for her first year of college, though I don't remember this being a hand-holding sort of process, nor am I aware of a divine entity having presented me with prophet status and a set of stone tablets outlining The Unbreakable Rules of Packing for College. But due to the as-yet-undiagnosed OCD, I have a four-page packing checklist that has accidentally convinced my sister that I am the Patron Saint of Putting Crap in Boxes. This is a title I would gladly accept if it were not for the Endless Questions of Dubious Answerability, the first and best being, "Um, how do I pack?"

She has also decided that she actually owns most of my belongings and has expressed an interest in the following items: my floor lamp, my straightening iron, my CD tower, my refrigerator, my whiteboard and my down comforter (apparently hers doesn't match). Granted, most of these things I'm not taking with me, and it's not like I'm going to need a blanket in the sunny, tropical British Isles. Duh.

posted by limeywannabe @ 4:25 PM