The Pack Out. And Me.

We all do it. We all have done it. We all will do it again: the big "Pack Out."  Clothes and household must-haves will fly around the house much like an uncovered blender set to high and everything becomes a dire life changing decision: Do we keep the 20 half empty tubes of lip balm and jars of hard earned spices? Do we keep the pile of bike-to-work t-shirts or the collection of ugly mugs? With impending explosions of tape, boxes, and organization rapture, it is easy to lose sight of the really important things, right?

Regardless of how we choose to go about managing these issues, the reassuring thing is pack out will eventually happen: with or without a carefully sculpted check list, with or without enthusiastic participation. A twisted enjoyable treat for some, a horrible nightmare for others but pack out is an obligatory task we all commit to in the Foreign Service and the stories we tell each other are heard around the world. Thankfully, most of them are boring and uneventful, some make us cringe  while other stories force us to sigh in resignation. Hopefully this ridiculous pack out story will make you laugh... 

This week our family hunkered down for our turn to load up and pack out our apartment. We sifted, sorted, sold and donated what we could, never once referring back to the half filled out lists I attempted to create for sake of organization. As I sectioned off each room for accompanying baggage, versus air freight, versus house hold effects by colored sticky notes, I dared to feel confident. The movers actually understood my directed requests and diligently started to take our lives off the shelves and placing them into tidy boxes labeled "Mr. Schlink."

By the end of the first day (3.5 hours to be exact) our apartment was nearly finished. They returned at 9am sharp the following morning to complete the move, just as I dashed out the door to take Margo to her checkup. Less than one hour later I returned to unmoved towers of boxes crowding the foyer, with six men huddled around the table discussing a plan of action. Apparently they were not permitted to use the elevator due to previous moving shenanigans with our landlord and thus were faced with hefting the boxes down sixty six steps. 

They took it all in literal stride, and one by one the boxes disappeared. By 12:30pm, we signed the papers, shook hands and watched the truck disappear down the street. Overall it was an uneventful mundane pack out. I felt victorious with my vibrant sticky notes stuck to the wall. With the children and dog accounted for, we planned to celebrate over lunch. I walked back to our bedroom and noticed they somehow forgot to pack four beach towels and a binder stuffed with odd end medical literature and a basket full of lip balms, mugs and wires. Finding it somewhat funny, I laughed as I reached for my dresser drawer to pull out a clean shirt. 

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

Confused? Here's a helpful tip on what to do during a packout: when you tell the movers not to touch anything in the bathroom where you keep your packed bags safely out of sight, keep them there until you see the moving truck head down the street. Here's a helpful tip on what NOT to do during a packout: when you "think" the movers can read minds, assume they cannot. Clearly out of my own mind, I unpacked my own bag earlier to help me feel more at home amidst the white walled cardboard city around me. I failed to communicate any of this to people  who might have stopped this dumb move and so it was- my clothes were gone. All I had was the dirty shirt (which could no longer change out of), the jeans on my body, a cardigan and jacket, and an extra pair of forgotten underwear that was stuck to the inside of the dryer.

My husband stared at me as I confessed my mistake. Then he dashed to his drawers to make sure I didn't do the same thing to him.  Relieved to find his clothes were still here, he gave me a hug and laughed. Shaking off my shock and embarrassment, I too eventually started to laugh so hard tears ran down my face. It was decided right then and there I would create a how-to guide on wearing the same thing for seven days. Here you go: 

Day #1: Discovery Day

 Day #2: Kris Kross Day
(though admittedly I was unable to button my pants)

Day #3:
My-ankles-are-soaked-but-my-knees-are-bone-dry Day.

Day #4: Soccer Mom Day.

Day #5: Sue Ellen Mischke Day

Day #6: Sweater Slashie Scarf Day

Day #7: Laundry Day