Not only am I packing my life (more on what my life consists of in a second), but I have misplaced some very important documents and they seem to have disappeared of the face of this earth (or the face of my home on Avon Road, but you got that.) So I just spent the better part of one of my last, precious, American hours looking for these documents fruitlessly, because it beats packing. Honestly, packing is the bane of my existence. I don't mean to use hyperbole, but I'd rather eat sandpaper with a saltwater chaser.
And here is why. Apparently, when every person I know comments to me that I have a lot of clothes and shoes, they aren't making an observation or complimenting my frugal yet stylish wardrobe. They are warning me. They are subtly intimating that I have too much stuff! They are imploring me to stop buying it! And they are warning me, perhaps with a touch of premonition, that I will not be able to transport all this stuff!
So here I sit, with two full bags packed, praying they each clock in at exactly 50 pounds, literally vacuuming my clothes into shrinky-dinks, just so I can move all my shoes, bags and ortho-hot clothing across the Atlantic. In case you are wondering, for deciding to move to our Homeland, one is allowed THREE bags total. Since I don't really have furniture to move, I'm not taking one of those famous lifts that are all the aliyah-rage, so I will be springing for a 4th bag, because you know what? I'm worth it! And don't we all need 4 pairs of bronze sandals? See, you get me.
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