Packing

I hate it.

I used to take pride in my ability to have all my stuff packed up in three hours flat. That was from 1997 to 2000, when I moved eight times. Now, it’s more like three weeks.

When anyone calls and asks how I’m doing my answer is always, “packing,” but what I’m really doing is sitting in the middle of all my stuff, feeling overwhelmed.

I have the most random, nonsensical stuff. In the past hour, I’ve found a box of negatives from 2003, a photo of a chicken I was supposed to give my friend Rodolfo almost six years ago, tickets to the U2 show in October, a special-edition Superman canister, a box of Ninja band-aids I never gave a friend, and old iPod accessories that are no longer compatible with anything Apple makes. Ah, plus clothes, books, and mountains of CDs and DVDs.

Step One: Admit I have a problem. (My name is Fayola and I’m a pack rat.)

Step Two: Set everything on fire.

Step Two: Call my cousin Tracy for help. Tell her to bring Starbucks, Red Bull or rum.