A pile of clothes, shoes, shampoo, and deodorant has exploded itself all over my bedroom, waiting to be nicely reorganized and shoved back into a 70 liter pack.
The shampoo stares at me with destructive eyes.
The bottle threatens to explode soapy bubbles onto my newly laundered clothes.
I shake a heavy-duty, gallon-sized Ziploc bag at the shampoo, but it stares back, eyes cold with malice.
The deodorant feigns unpracticed protection.
I ask, "will you guard my underarms from stench, dear friend?"
"I've never been to Africa before. I don't know if I can withstand such heat," some fluttering eyelashes and fabricated naivety accompany this reply. It desires more from our relationship, perhaps more recognition for it's mediocre work.
I flash the deodorant a mean glare, but it seems not to notice.
My shoes threaten to be clunky and awkward, too big to fit in my pack.
My shoes do not like going to Africa. They have tried to escape from my sight numerous times.
They, like the deodorant, feel under-appreciated, I am sure.
The only allies I have are my skirts.
The unlikeliest of all friends, they willingly fold, twist, and maneuver into the cramped spaces of my pack. Perhaps they are so willing to work with my limited vacancy because of their utter excitement. My skirts will see the sun each and every day in Africa. They will be worn for the first time in months. I imagine they feel like puppies waiting to be adopted and loved.
I guess now it is time to conquer this battle zone rather than personify inanimate objects.
On to packing...
