Not that I'm Avoiding Packing, Or Anything . . .

Tomorrow I need to be on a train to Philadelphia at 9:05 for a business trip. A couple of nights ago I had one of those harrowing anxiety dreams about not making it to the train on time. In the dream, not only was I dawdling away the hour or so in the morning that I had left myself to finish packing and get organized, but I realized I had forgotten to pick up clothes from the dry cleaner that I desperately needed for the trip. When I woke up I felt great relief that I wasn't leaving for a day or two and that I had time to get everything done.

Fast forward to tonight. It's 10:21 p.m. and I still need to pack and my energy is fading. Somehow I always forget that packing takes time, too--I think that after I get the laundry done (about ten minutes ago), well, that's it, I'm in great shape. Also, I nearly managed to make my bad dream come true today. It wasn't until I was on the subway on my way to Manhattan (I live in Brooklyn, not too far out but not that close, either, to "the city," as we call it) to buy some, yes, last-minute items that I needed for the trip and also to stop at my office because I had forgotten some papers I need to bring with me, that I looked at the receipt from the dry cleaners' to see what their hours were. It was around 2:30 then and I assumed the store would stay open until 6 or 7 on Saturday. Nope, 5:00. So there was a lot of suspense and drama for me as I dashed to the store I needed near Union Square, then down to the financial district where I work, then subway back to Brooklyn with only 45 minutes to spare. In the rain. I did make it, thankfully. Then I went next door to the nail salon for manicure/pedicure. It was busy and cheerful inside and I sank into a happy lethargy while I got my hands and feet worked on. Then back out into the rain and the wind with my dry cleaning and the umbrella that kept flipping inside out. Dinner. Laundry. And I suppose now I have to stop writing and go pack a suitcase.

Well, just this, though:

Yesterday I was with my family for a small gathering--my sister, my nephew, my father, and me. My father, who is 87 and worries that his mind is less sharp than it used to be, beat me at Scrabble by a clean 100 points. This is a man who never finished high school, playing against his daughter, the PhD. Oh, and, as he always has, he plays with the board facing backwards towards him--he is used to reading letters upside down because he used to be a linotype operator.

Scrabble was a big thing in my family. When we play now, as we do very occasionally, I am carried back immediately to the way it always felt when I played with my parents--a sense of content and shared mental concentration, a putting aside of whatever family tensions there were. Instead, there would be headshaking in lament about too many vowels or too many consonants on one's rack or about the board's not being "open," or goodnatured pleadings to the other person to just go already, stop taking so long, it's only a game (in my mind I can hear my mother saying that last phrase).

At dinner yesterday, there was some conversation about the cabernet sauvignon we were drinking. My nephew, who has worked as a bartender and also owned his own bar for awhile, commented that the wine had "good legs." Then he showed us visually what that meant--how if you slosh the wine around in the class it sticks to the side a little and as it drips down it looks kind of like legs. Then he admitted, "Of course, I don't really know why that's good or what it means, beyond that."

My father piped up with a wisecrack, as he is wont to do.

"Oh, don't be so sedimental," he said.

I think I must have just gaped at my father, I was so impressed. I said, "Daddy, I don't think you need to worry about your mind." My nephew agreed. "Yeah, that one was pretty good."

Okay, now I have to pack. Wish me luck.