I start out with these grand lists when I plan trips. Projects to do before leaving. “Complete landscaping backyard.” (Well, one can’t leave for a trip when the backyard is incompletely landscaped. What if the neighbors had to go back there to rescue a wounded bird or something? How embarrassing.) “Put all eight letter bingos on index cards, with extensions and anagrams.”

Then there’s the packing list itself. Shampoo (including brand and fluid ounces). First aid kit including suture kit. All the shoes I’ve ever worn. Number of books to bring: number of days x 3. The packing list grows to pages and pages.

Up until about two days before the trip, I continue to methodically gather these items and work on the projects. Then panic strikes. I realize that the backyard progress so far is a pile of broken slate and three barberry bushes which should have been planted in May. The suture kit is really my mending kit, which is missing all the buttons from when Em made puppets out of the winter socks.

It is at this point that I face the pile and realize: there is no hope. The list is a sham and an illusion. If the emperor did have clothes, they certainly wouldn’t be packed in time to leave town.

Then I start flinging things into suitcases.