A funny thing happens when I begin to pack. My thoughts become disorganized and suddenly the idea of wearing only a multi-coloured afro and suspenders for a weekend seems entirely appropriate. Tex had yet to witness this phenomenon until last night. Frankly I’m surprised that we are still together. Prior to becoming a cowboy, Tex was an engineer, as such, he approaches life problems like packing systematically, whereas I take the hippie-artist scattershot route.
Obviously a shirt would be overkill, but otherwise the perfect ensemble for any occasion. (Photo Credit : fancydress.com)
7:00 PM – My flight leave in less than twelve hours
Tex “Have you started packing?”
Unwashed “No, why would I do that?”
7:45 PM – A 4:20 wakeup call dictates an imminent bedtime
Tex “You need to start packing”
Unwashed sitting on the couch reading “I’m getting there”
8:03 PM
Tex “Where’s your suitcase?”
I take the suitcase from its spot by the front door and choose to lay it on the futon which is only the second most inconvenient place in the apartment, the first being in the middle of the kitchen table.
Then I commence throwing random articles of clothing onto the shag carpet in the other room.
8: 21 PM
Tex, who is busy doing dishes and being helpful, calls from the kitchen “You’re busy packing right?”
I stop lolling around on the soft carpet for a moment to throw a pair of rainbow striped socks onto the mixed up pile next to me. “Yes, I’m so busy, in fact I’m almost done.” I call back.
Tex “So you have tights?”
Unwashed “No”
Tex “A skirt?”
Unwashed “No”
Tex “A dress?”
Unwashed “No”
Tex “Underwear?”
Unwashed inwardly “Does one really need more than one pair for four days?” aloud “No”
I spend the next twenty minutes walking back and forth between the bedroom and the living room where I’ve put my suitcase, depositing random items into it, like a pair of high heels, a camera battery charger but no camera. Tex watches all this with amusement and just a hint of concern.
A half hour passes, inexplicably I am no more ready to leave and I have somehow lost the capris and shirt that I was wearing in the process. It’s at this point that I decide to fine tune my twerking form in my underpants. Watching my leopard print butt wiggle back and forth in a manner that one could neither describe as dancing nor twerking Tex asks “And this helps you fold sweaters and shirts how?”
Unwashed stops bouncing “Ummmm”
Tex “Do you have pyjamas?”
Unwashed “No”
Tex “Do you have a toothbrush?”
Unwashed “I don’t need one”
The look of horror on Tex’s face necessitates an explanation. “One should replace their toothbrush every three months, I travel on average once every four to six, so I buy a new one when I arrive.”
Tex looks skeptical of my determination to buy a toothbrush upon arrival “I’ll get your travel one out of my bag.” He lays the orange toothbrush on the kitchen table, where it can’t be missed.
After nearly half an hour more of cajoling from Tex, I am packed and Tex is oddly exhausted. I don’t know why, he wasn’t the one running back and forth everywhere trying to find passports and the like.
This post is dedicated to my more hygienic half, who shows patience and kindness in the face of my ridiculousness and disorganization.
The Great Unwashed 