The Packing Battle

My last night home. It should feel surreally special or incredibly sentimental but really, I'm tired, I need to shower, and catch up on bad reality television. Truly, this meaningful evening of finality would not be complete with one essential activity:

A fight with my mother.

Involving a suitcase, peanut butter, and many eye rolls. 

I'm leaving in 18ish hours and naturally, I have yet to complete packing. As a young woman, I have WSA: wardrobe separation anxiety. It's difficult enough to narrow the options down to a 50lb suitcase, shoes included. When you throw in 4 months of necessities and toiletries, forget it. The female mind has been scrutinized for spatial abilities and with this suitcase, I am a shoelace away from giving up.

Every dress, tshirt, and q-tip becomes a battle. A war unto itself that ends in swearwords and apparel hurled at the wall until someone storms out. Only to breathe before we head to the next pile.

And, with my dietary restrictions and Andalusian cuisine of shrimp and ham, my mother needs me to pack some food too. So, amongst the dozens of undies and a pair of loafers and the jeans I will rewear till their death, I've wedged a jar of Skippy creamy peanut butter to ensure that I get some protein.  

I'm only on an intermezzo right now, from shorts heading towards handbags. 

Wish me luck when I face that industrial sized scale tomorrow.