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CONTRIBUTED BY MEREDITH NOVARIO
Packing for a big move stinks. As often as I’ve done it, I continue to make tragic decisions about what to pack. While I’m hunched over a sea of cardboard boxes, I inevitably pack for the perfect version of myself. The Meredith who will read all ninety of these books. The Meredith who will fit in these here clothes. You know the ones. The Meredith who will need every last cooking utensil and platter because she will entertain with all sorts of pizazz and ease. With every move you get to start over which I dig. However, I need to learn not to start over while I’m packing because the Meredith that arrives in her new home is going to stomp her angry feet over decisions that were made for her in a delirious moment back in that last house. She will not for a second appreciate that midnight decision to retire all her hooded sweatshirts because for a fleeting moment they didn’t seem grown up enough.
Other than packing most of my professional wardrobe despite not having a plan to work, we did fairly well overall. If I knew then what I know now about Okinawa, I would not have packed a wool coat or any vaguely winter attire.
And on the flip side, I would have packed anything and everything cotton or breathable or summery, because no matter how hot people told me it was, I didn’t really know because I have never been this hot EVER.
Also, we were encouraged not to bring any of our furniture. We obliged and I’m not sure I would make that choice again.
And your thoughts?