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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/P6020014.jpg"><img class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-5864" title="P6020014.JPG" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/P6020014-300x225.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="225" /></a>I am the World's Worst Packer.  It's true.

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Ironically, I am quite organized about the whole process.  I am a "list person", so I have packing lists saved on my computer for every season.  All I have to do is pull up the list, alter the number of "outfits", and I am set.

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I would say that I'm not sure how I manage to botch up my streamlined process and morph into World's Worst Packer, but I know exactly what goes wrong.

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One of my mother's nicknames for me is Poky Little Puppy.  Remember the children's book of the same name?  Mom started calling me Poky Little Puppy during my childhood when she realized that I have a tendency to be...well...poky.

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So...When packing, after I am off to more than a really good start with my highly detailed Virgo-created packing list, I take my sweet time.  And often wind up packing up until way past my bedtime.  And then again the next morning (toiletries, make-up, etc.) up until the time my dear, sweet, selfless friends and airport chauffeurs (Lisa or Dina dahling) pick me up in a harried and frazzled mess.

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(Married women and women with significant others, be grateful for your built-in chauffeurs.  Treat them well.)

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On Day 249, I helped my boss out with a last minute disaster/project, and I didn't leave work as early as anticipated.  I also needed to stop at the bank, mail my mother's and uncle's birthday cards, feed myself something decent, as well as feed and walk Little Miss B.  I wanted to finish packing and hit the hay at a decent hour so that I would arrive at the <strong><a href="http://worlddominationsummit.com/" target="_blank">World Domination Summit</a></strong><a href="http://worlddominationsummit.com/" target="_blank"> </a>refreshed and ready for a weekend during which I was guaranteed to sacrifice sleep.  (Isn't that always the case at conferences???)

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Competitive lass that I am, I set a goal for myself:  On this night I would achieve my Packing Personal Best.  I didn't have the luxury of dawdling for hours in a poky haze.

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To hold myself accountable, I enlisted Cooleenie as my coach.  I reported in with my start time and set the timer for 60 minutes.  I would need to pause for dinner and Little Miss B's much needed walk and rabbit/lizard/quail/cricket hunt, but I would complete the packing in 60 minutes.

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I am proud to report to you (and Coach Cooleenie before you) that I did indeed achieve my Packing Personal Best, despite overpacking way too many clothes and shoes that were never or barely worn during my trip.  (Isn't that always the case with packing???)

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You can now call me Peppy Little Puppy.

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Or...

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World's Worst Packer Who Is Now Peppier But Who Still Overpacks Clothes, Shoes and Books.

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There is always next time...

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(photos of shoes and tennis -- what i wound up wearing.)

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