Packing is hard. Really, really hard. Possibly the most difficult thing I have to do on a semi-regular basis. Don’t believe me? Ask the duffel bag I brought to Maryland last weekend. No better yet, ask the clothes that were in the duffel-because 75 percent of them never made it out.

It’s unfair to ask me to stuff two suitcases full of clothes that I could end up hating a week from now. Or to debate between this pretty, multicolored skirt and that one. How many pairs of black flats do I realistically need for a year? Do I want my pointy Nine Wests with no traction, or the cheapo ballet flats that sort of smell after a long day? Or what about that other pair of black ballet flats, with the square-ish toe and the Mary-Jane strap? These are tough questions, people! In the end, I’ll probably end up throwing them all in, only to find that there are even cuter black flats to be purchased once I get to Korea.

I am also missing my supply of contacts, which totally blows because I hate my glasses and don’t want to be stuck over there with nothing but frames. Not so condusive to sunglasses-wearing, you know?

I also need to figure out how many boxes of Kraft mac and cheese I can fit into my suitcase. If I am ever stuck on a deserted island, I’ll be fine, just as long as there is a lifetime supply of the cheesiest on the island with me. I’m aiming for five boxes, but we’ll see.

After conversing with Erin, I’ve decided to go sans DVDs. Anything I really want can be easily purchased on iTunes, or bought in bootlegged form from a street vendor. As far as books go, I’ll probably bring one or two, but no more. I didn’t realize how many books I own until I started cleaning my room. Most of them I’ve already read but have yet to lend out or give away. Veteran journalist Eric Weiner had a great line in his recent bestseller The Geography of Bliss, but of course that’s the one book I own that, of course, I cannot find at the moment. The line was great, something about how it’s a greater deed to give a book away once you’re done with it, instead of keeping it to yourself and thereby not spreading its infinite wisdom. But of course, that’s paraphrased. The actual sentence is pretty awesome. The one other book in my collection that I absolutely love yet cannot find is a 1918 copy of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I read the novel first in my AP English Lit class in high school, then several times on my own in college, and I daresay it’s my favorite book. One time, while perusing a back shelf at a local discount bookstore, I found the 1918 copy and snatched it up. It’s just cool to imagine all the people whose eyes have skimmed its yellowed pages over the past 90 years.

Wooooo, I got way off-topic there. Bottom line: it is 1 a.m. on Sunday, September 28th (oh, happy birthday, Dad!), and I have yet to open a single suitcase to begin packing. Something tells me tomorrow is not going to be fun. Until, of course, my fantastic going-away dinner.

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