Don’t fence me in, I said. Don’t make me choose. What if I want something else another time? Who could give up that? And so I never really unpacked anywhere. (Still don’t, just ask my wife.) Rather than making it easier to jump, this means accumulating baggage. All the reasons, rationales, and run-arounds. History repeated, roads not taken. Running from the very thing I ought to wed.
When we check into a motel room, she almost always puts her things inside the drawers. I never ever do that. Just leave it in the bag or suitcase, even at her sister’s house—although the last time there I did relent. What kind of person does this? I’m afraid of putting my clothes down in there… (Who knows what goes on with motel furniture?) And if I leave everything in my bag, I always know where something is, even if I have to root for it. I must be fearful of forgetting, too. The baggage then is me.