I’ve often had daydreams about fleeing abusive relationships.
I’ve never been in one. And it’s not like I’ve ever really witnessed an abusive relationship. (My parents? Are too nice to each other. Honestly. It’s annoying at times.) I think it’s a product of watching as many CBS dramas as I do. You start out all, “Pssh. I’d never let my husband sell my daughter into white slavery in order to maintain his drug habit and you know what? I don’t always deserve it when he hits me either. Bastard.”
But then you think, wait. I’m not that ambitious. I mean, I let the wind blow over everything in my room today because moving across the room to close the window was oh so much work and eh, I didn’t like that picture that much anyway. I’d probably never actually leave him. And I’d probably believe that I did deserve to be hit.
(Actually. I probably would deserve to be hit a few times.)
(I’m just saying, I’m not easy to live with all the times.)
I mean, I believed Steve Jobs when he told me I needed an iPhone.
So then you feel compelled to begin planning your escape from this abusive relationship into which you have yet to enter. Like packing. These CSI episodes usually take place in trailer parks, so there aren’t a whole lot of furnishings that you really want to bring. But clothes! How could you condense all your clothes?
Well, folks. I can tell you, without reservation, that if I should ever hook up with a loser who sells my children to sex merchants, I could pack all my clothes into one very normal sized suitcase. Because I did pretty much just that this afternoon.
See, I figured denial was probably not a good strategy now that we’re leaving in, like, thirty-six hours. Lists are awesome (they are!) but they really aren’t going to make me any less of a persona non grata when it’s Friday morning and I’m not ready to go.
(I imagine my father, who is obsessed with getting through Chicago before the sun rises, and my sister, who will in all likelihood already be wearing a hoop skirt and answering to the name “Katie Scarlett,” will have to fight over who can maim me first.)
I decided to take everything out that I was going to bring. And…it was a little scary.
Okay. Some of it ended up staying home. I mean, I probably didn’t need two long-sleeve shirts when we’re going to Satan’s sauna. But most of it stayed. And, thanks to packing tips that I learned as a seven-year-old from American Girl Magazine, I managed to fit it all (beautifully, I may add) into this…
SO. If you ever need help packing to flee from your abusive spouse, or just for a vacation, I’m your girl.