Packing Beef

I have always been terrible at packing. When I was a kid my family would always have to wait for me to finish packing my bag before summer vacation. One time, at about midnight the night before, I realized that I had lost my duffle bag. We had to call a friend early the next morning, when we were supposed to be on the road already, to ask to borrow one. Why they didn’t make me use a trash bag I’ll never know. After Marigold and I became increasingly intimate, she started picking up the slack for me. I didn’t mean to be That Guy, but I am. She would arrange everything I would need and extrapolate out the quantities based on the projected numbers of days separated from home. Apparently much too difficult for me to accomplish. It has gotten to where I trust her judgment and don’t even check to make sure that all my highest of fashion items are packed. But should I expect her to pack my stuff for when I leave her in ten days? “Baby, I’ve leaving you for French whores, but I’ll be back for you to take care of me in ten weeks. Pack my clothes, would ya? Don’t forget the condoms, doll.” Or maybe I can save the ol girl from one more bit of heartache, and not be an ass.

The picture above is from the Tybee lighthouse.