I think the most ironic part of this post is as I sit here and write this, I’m supposed to be packing. Whether it’s your dorm, apartment, sorority house or (for the love of God) your parent’s house, packing up your shit is never easy. I’m not talking about packing for a vacation either, which compared to packing up your house is a freaking cakewalk. It’s a slow, arduous and grueling process. There is blood, sweat, stubbed toes and tears to be had along with lengthy snack breaks and periods of laying on the floor contemplating how you accumulated so much crap.
I came up with the stages my packing process normally takes, though I can’t imagine that most of yours are far off.
Stage 1: Surveying, Planning and Whining
I’d say this stage starts with a quick survey of the area. Your eyes sweep over your bedroom, looking at your shoes strewn around along with your overflowing hamper, but you barely glance at your closet- that is a disaster you can’t even begin to think about.
Next, you decide what area you’ll tackle first. The sock drawer? Possibly. Your desk? Doubtful. Under the bed? Definitely not. Maybe it’s time to go through the never ending sweatshirt collection or attempt to detangle the cords from your flat iron, curling iron and hair dryer.
Nah, snack break and time to tweet how much packing sucks #sendhelp.
Stage 2: Dance Party & Reminiscing
Now that you’ve satisfied your hunger and picked the perfect Pandora station (aka accomplishing absolutely nothing), preferably Summer Hits of the 2000’s, it’s time to get this train rolling. You have attacked your dresser and the closet has been semi-organized (your shoe bin is a hopeless mess). As you’re rounding towards home you move onto your desk, finding an old iPhone, your fake i.d that helped your survive until your senior year, (with its matching second form) and a stack of pictures you planned on using for some cute craft you found on Pinterest (#DIY) that you never got around to doing. Next thing you know a half-hour has gone by as you’re going through your old texts and calling your friends laughing at old drunk messages and boozy pictures…
and then it happens.
Sk8er Boi comes on and of course you remember every single word (if you don’t we aren’t friends) and there’s a quick concert on your bed, obviously, with the hairbrush microphone.
Stage 3: The Piles Stage (No Not Plies’ Bust It Baby)
Obviously since you have your life together and shit, you’re going to organize your crap. You start with your clothes: a pile for jeans, a pile for sweatpants, a pile for leggings.. you get the idea. Then you go even deeper and organize it by seasons and what you should send home to your parents (but obviously your sister can’t borrow it even though it’s just going to collect dust in your room).
Soon enough the number of piles reaches into the double digits. It’s like an obstacle course trying to navigate without knocking something over and you keep putting the leggings in the workout pants pile and you’re just like bye Felicia, I am so over this.
Stage 4: I QUIT
You are exhausted and just can’t even. Half of the room is packed and most of your shit is in the piles and you’re near tears because you just stubbed your toe and, let’s face it, you’re just a mess. At this point you may go whine to your roomies and see where they’re at or you may just lay on your floor surrounded by the piles.
This is when Burn by Usher comes on the Pandora station and you’re just laying there staring at the ceiling wondering when life got so hard. So now that you’ve proven something as simple as packing has you seconds from a nervous breakdown, it’s time for bed.
Stage 5: Fuck it, I’m using trash bags
You wake up the next morning and it’s the day your lease ends and it’s a complete fire drill. No one is completely packed, the fridge is still full and not to mention you haven’t cleaned anything. All of the wine bottles are still lining the top of the kitchen cabinets and the beer pong lights are hanging from the curtain rods in the living room.
This is when you get into the zone, everything is just shoved in wherever it will fit. The piles are disregarded and tossed into the nearest suitcase and Vera Bradley duffles, when you run out of those its time for trash bags and if you’re desperate, you just throw it in your trunk. (sidenote: you will regret this when it’s time to unpack)
If you’re lucky nothing gets lost in the struggle, you only cry once, you end up with all of your shoes, most of your own underwear and only three of your roommates shirts.
And now the real fun begins, time to unpack, bitches.