Pre-Departure Pains

I pick up my hair brush, and put it down. This process repeats itself 4 more times before I toss my hairbrush into a drawer, slamming it shut. I never brush my hair, never more than a comb in the shower.

Hair straightener? No. How often do I even straighten my hair in Tempe? Twice this past year, I think.

I move over to my menagerie of fragrances. Maybe these three…

Three? No. One.

 But…

NO!

I fall into my bed and take a deep breath. By most reality-television-show standards, I’m a borderline hoarder. It’s not to the degree that there are stacks of newspapers everywhere and stray cats wandering around my house, I’ve just always had a problem throwing things away. Everything seems to have potential use, and I’m always afraid that I’ll regret throwing something away. It takes me an average of 6-8 hours just to clean my room, because I can’t throw anything into the trash without thinking about whether I actually want to get rid of it.

All my homework from 6^th grade onwards, handouts, essays, notes, everything. They’re all in a drawer in my room because I can’t throw them away. Each one is a memory, a proof of my existence. How can I voluntarily erase the proof of my existence?

Ticket stubs, maps, receipts… What if, when I’m 90, I forget about all the adventures I had in my youth? What will remind me? I’ll have proof, that yes, on June 13^th 2010, I had mediocre tiramisu in a café in the biggest and most wondrous park in Northern Europe, when my friend and I decided to go to Sutton Coldfield and visit Fred and George Weasely’s hometown on a whim.

But… I haven’t gone through them once. They’re still in their box, sitting, waiting to remind me of all the fun I had. It’s just so much, it looks daunting. It’s daunting to go down memory lane. That’s what’s become of me.

This memoir will suffice, I’ve decided. I will not need souvenirs. I will not need ticket stubs. This will be my proof, my reference. I want to travel as minimally and as lightly as possible.

Total Weight: 30 pounds (including my books for class, which themselves weighed 10 pounds, so really, 20 pounds of my "stuff"). My bag is two hats long, to give you kind of an idea of the size perspective

I’m already getting anxious looking at it, wanting to put more things in my bag. But I won’t. This will be an interesting, uncomfortable, out-of-my-box-and-into-the-neighbor’s-yard experience. And, as any sophisticated hedonist will tell you, I perceive the potential pleasure from actually being able to pull this off being greater than carrying more things now to ensure my comfort.

I wonder how many things I've forgotten to pack… I guess I’ll find out soon enough.