Right now, at this very moment, I am procrastinating a bunch of post-vacation chores. You know the drill: clean out the car, unpack, wash/fold/put away laundry, do dishes, run a kitchen inventory (a week is a long time to leave food!), clean and reorganize the entire house, feed the dog, water the flowers, mow the lawn.
There are few things in life I hate more than unpacking. I've been known to let my luggage (minus the dirty clothes) sit for weeks as I gradually picked out the items I needed. A girls camp backpack sat in my room until the only things left were the waterproof matches and compass. In fact, my wallet still contains a €5 bill ... from six years ago.
Packing has never been a problem for me; after a few months in Europe I could pack for a weekend in another country in a half hour or less. Kids make the job trickier, sure, but it's a happy task for me. One of anticipation.
The unpacking gets me, though. It's so final. Unpacking means the vacation is over; it's time to take stock of what I have and put it back in its place. Unpacking means it's time to move on.
And so, I think, it is with my life. I have a lifelong habit of holding on to things too long. Jealousies, insecurities. Hurts. Pride. Love lost. I hold on to things I have packed in my past and, occasionally, neglect the uncluttered future.
So much unpacking to do.
(Then I can tell you about the vacation.)