I throw the suitcase on the bed. Jesse hates when I do that--airplane germs he says. That case has been everywhere. The zipper on the left side is broken, has been for a while, but I don't want to look for another suitcase yet. I have honed my packing routine with this one. I know what can fit where. I fear that I won't remember things with a new suitcase. Looking at this one I can tell that I've forgotten things by the thickness, or thinness, of the front pocket. I keep jewelry stashed in secret places in case I forget to pack a necklace, or a bracelet. I decide out of guilt to move the suitcase over to my side of the bed.
I don't need to unpack everything--just the used tops, socks and underwear. The makeup and toiletry bags can stay, and the hairbrush, and the belts--those have been placed on the same side and remain untouched. Some items need to be replenished, like my aspirin case, my Q-tip dispenser, my toothpaste, my business card holder. I refill those immediately--I know that I'll never get to them if I wait until early the next morning; my brain is half on then.
I put out my clothes for the next day and plug in all of my electronics at the charging station, even if they don't need it. The chances that I will forget to bring my cell phone or my iPod are lowered when I charge them together next to the computer. I've forgotten many things before--jewelry, charging cords, medication, deodorant--but never my computer.
I hung some clothes up along my bedroom window weeks ago, at the beginning of the travel jag, to spare me from coming home and having to rifle through items in my closet. They've been placed in the order of when I will need them--cold weather outfits, warm weather outfits, cold again. These items are clean and unrepeated. "Unrepeated" is a highly subjective term. Of course I repeat outfits, but I do try to stick to some criteria:--Can't wrinkle too easily--not a hard and fast rule, but all things being equal the wrinkleable items stay home.
--Haven't worn the last time I was in that city.
--Seasonable
--Has matching elements that are clean
--Will go with one of the two pair of dress shoes I can fit in my case
This criteria makes choosing my outfits the most lengthy part of my routine. It's like a logic problem you might encounter while taking the GRE: If Jory has four clean sweaters, three blouses, three pairs of slacks, two skirts, three pair of tights (two in gray), three pair of clean dress socks, two belts, three necklaces, can only fit two pair of shoes in addition to her gym shoes, must have five unrepeated outfits for meetings in two climate zones and may not check a bag (I forbid it), how many outfits can she create?
This has been my routine since January.
I open my underwear and sock drawers--thankfully I went hog wild at Victoria's Secret over the holidays and stocked up on enough underwear to outfit me for several months without doing laundry, but I'm nearly out of clean socks. I begin my process of bargaining: If I stretched it and wore these socks two days--not consecutively--and wore gym socks with boots, I could pull this off.
Jesse asks if it makes sense to do a quick load of laundry to free up some socks and fitted T-shirts and I tell him no. We have four or five waking hours left to do something together; I'd rather not spend it in preparation for my next trip in the morning.
I throw in some workout gear. My gym shoes hardly fit in the bag and I question for a minute whether I should even bother working out. I disabuse myself of this notion and stuff them in the front pocket. This is going to make it really difficult to stow my bag in an overhead bin, but so be it.
I have a conference that starts in SoCal Sunday, but I'm going to leave a day earlier to visit with my in-laws, who live down there. I love to plan extra time--a day, a dinner--to see people when I'm in town. I've become better about making the time for it. But this also means more time away, more to pack, another appointment, another weekend away. I remind myself: You planned this.
I ask Jess what he wants to do for dinner--let's make something simple here, he says, since I'm home just tonight. I notice we don't have a lot of options in the fridge, but I don't suggest we go and get anything; I rescind my right to add grocery items to the shopping list for the week when I'm not going to be around. Later, after dinner, I notice Jess has broken into the raspberry sorbet I bought weeks ago. We've established an unspoken rule: No griping about Jesse eating my food when I'm not around to eat it. We can always buy more.
I've taken a similar stance on work-related issues. Things in the office happen, and I can't be asked to sound off on everything, just the biggies. I no longer take umbrage when meetings go on without me, but I do desire connection. I get my reports in early--something that used to be an impossibility but that I've made possible. I check in more. I create tiny threads of connection that are barely perceptible, but that keep me from drifting off into space. Sometimes I swear all I can hear is the sound of my breathing, like I'm in a spacesuit, like Darth Vader. I remind myself I'll be back home soon enough. This is just another mission. And I remember: Once I'm on the moon, I'm at home.
I call my mom from the car. She knows the drill.
"Where are you going?" she says. I haven't told her I was going anywhere yet. I take an ounce of comfort in the fact that the Bay Bridge is far less congested on a Saturday morning, and I'm surprised when I get to the Red Carpet Club at the United terminal and most of the seats are taken. Some are leisure travelers. Most are like me--opening their laptops and getting to work. I actively decide: It's a Saturday. I'm not doing email now. I'm going to blog.
