12 days and counting...

I am now officially in the throes of preparing for my trip.

I do this much like one might prepare for an international move to a third world country. This is when I act like Rome is not the largest city in Italy, with retailers and services far and away more comprehensive than those in my own hometown, and instead like an unknown civilization with limited means that can be entered only by the most self-sustaining and resourceful travelers.

Clearly, this is not the case.

I mean, for starters, there are more than three million people living there. Which means they must at least have one shoe store.

Shoes?

Italian shoes?

Who has heard of such things?

I say this because I just bought three pairs of shoes for my trip. Yes three. And I already have at least two at home earmarked for the suitcase. That brings us to five pairs for nine days. No, I'm not trying to wear a different pair everyday. But one must be prepared for all scenarios, and so I pack more shoes.

This might *might* be why I hate packing so much. Clearly I have a hard time being decisive when faced with a defined travel period, my closet and a "whimsical" method of getting dressed. (Whimsical=slow and mind-numbing) This might also explain why I race off to buy a bunch of new clothes (and shoes) and then debut them during my trip, without properly road-testing them on my home turf. I mean, being faced with having to make attractive outfits from a limited wardrobe for more than seven separate days is a challenge I'm simply not up to. So, I shop.

This is always a mistake. This is how one ends up in a foreign country unknowingly exposing the native countrymen to ones private bits thanks to a poorly installed zipper or peek-a-boo button. These things should be tried out close to home and within arm's reach of a handful of safety pins. (Note to self: pack safety pins)

Regardless of the woes that surely await me, I've shopped. And I fear, I have shopped beyond my means to carry. My suitcase may have the ability to unzip an extra three inches of storage space, but it isn't one of those cartoon suitcases in which you can house a full grown hippopotamus playing a cello. Sadly. Since that would mean I could bring at least two more pairs of shoes and maybe even my boots. *Drool*

So I'm at that scary point in my packing (fricken 'ew) when I have to reacquaint myself with the laws of physics and start nixing clothes for the sake of space and so that hubby will not roll his eyes when he sees me trying to oldschool close my suitcase by sitting on it. Again, this is not a cartoon.

15, 14, 13, 12...