It’s 10pm. The movers will be here at 9 sharp tomorrow morning to take away two years of accumulated crap to my new apartment downtown.
I am totally inept at packing. It’s taken me days and days, and I’m still not finished. It seems that the more boxes I collect, the more shoes, bottles of perfume, dishes I have. Packing is a lot like Parkinson’s Law, which states that work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion. Only instead of the time it takes to complete a task, it is the boxes it takes me to fill up with my random collection of living supplies.
Once I acquire a box, I find another pile of books.
I call this Packer’s Law.