A day pack, hand-knit socks. On purpose, hiking boots. This weekend, if I can't do it in cowboy boots, I'm not doing it. I didn't bother to pack CDs for the drive in Kate's car, and everyone is bringing food, except me. I do have a sleeping bag, and a bag of dried peaches and a lot of those tiny bags of roasted almonds, and Richard Hugo's autobiography, and a notebook that I started for notes about the mini-farm. Two pairs of pajamas, two pairs of flip-flops, my feather earrings and my favorite shawl. Only three cameras this time, if you don't count my phone. Which reminds me, I forgot a phone charger.
It feels strange to get away right now, on the face of it, more anxiety-producing than relaxing. Jennifer and Kate planned this trip to the Rolling Huts forever ago, and I was in immediately, but have been fretting over it all week. Maybe I need the weekend to pack? Do I even know what I need to do? How will I decide? Decisions have been tough these past few weeks. Yesterday I told Kate that I thought the force with which I made the mini-farm decision had spent all my deciding power and she wrote back "I think you're right! Now you need to recharge your batteries. I'll decide for you. You're coming with us! We will have the most fun ever!"
So that's what I'm going to do. Have the most fun ever.