On packing

Anyone who has every traveled with me knows this: I am a terrible packer. I bring three winter coats on a weekend trip to Toronto. I leave really important things at home (I brought three pairs of high heeled sandals to Tofino and no fleece for our honeymoon, which was at the end of August). I write various lists and hide them around the house, updating them when I have panic induced Eureka moments. For instance, the list next to me right now reads:
- write Ganesh's number
- email publisher
- bring nail polish remover
- Tevas
- nail stuff
This list is neither parallel nor sensical. It indicates action items and things to be bought. I am leaving for India in 16 hours. I am doomed.

In truth, I have been prepping for this trip for months now, systematically buying extra hair pins, yoga pants, and insurance. I am the most prepared I've ever been for any journey, but still I write nonsense lists and wake in the middle of the night yelling "tampons! buy tampons!" into my long suffering husband's ear.
Almost a decade ago, I left on the requisite European backpacking trip. Three hours before take off I stuffed my backpack full of whatever, never blinking. Five years ago I went to Russia with two overweight suitcases, no time piece, and three drops of contact solution, and I didn't care (my roommate might have, though, because I used all her contact solution). Two years ago, for our first trip to India, my then boyfriend (now husband, although I'm sure that trip made him think twice) took care of all the practicalities: electronics cables, batteries, converters, first aid accoutrements, leaving me to worry about, well, clothes.
This time I'm prepared. I have a first aid kit with enough immodium to plug up a small city state. I have two pairs of tweezers, multiple boxes of tampons, and an herbal stress spray that my naturopath endorses.
If my 5 year old ipod hadn't decided to die, just this afternoon, I'd be all set.
Bon voyage, me! India, here I come.