Packing Blues

Packing for five days in Estes Park. Thanksgiving with Pete's family. Generally, I could fit five days of clothes in my duffle bag with room to spare. The catch is, it isn't just clothes. I have Christmas presents, one of which is rather bulky. And we may go snowshoeing. And it's currently 28F there, which is 17F with the wind chill. Based on these two bits of information, I decided that I really do need all three of my layering coats. (I could almost leave my barn coat behind, but it's the only one that completely covers my ass, which is important in wind).

Five days. Three pairs of shoes. Being a girl sometimes makes no fucking sense.

I found one glove and the headband I wasn't looking for. Typically, I should have a pair of gloves in one pocket of my heavy coat and a good headband in the other. Since I don't, I'm trying to figure out where they've gone. Obviously, they went together. Perhaps they've eloped.

I may ignore my cardinal rule of packing: Everything must fit without the expansion panel on the way out, so that if will fit with the expansion panel on the way back. But once I shed that Christmas present, everything will fit better. And I can carry a coat on the way back if I have to. (Hell, by the look of the forecast, I'll be wearing something heavy until I get into the airport, anyhow).

The whole gloves-and-headband thing makes me feel all discombobulated. I have a Spaz Kitty song in my head right now, "Tuff's Song," all about someone who just can't get his shit together. Must've had a good time 'cause he doesn't remember how he got here, and he can't find his shoe, and his pants don't fit . . . You'd probably have a Quote of the Week from it, if I'd been able to find the lyrics online.

At least my pants fit.