Panties and cruise lines

Will there be a washing machine on the cruise ship? Will my cats like the neighbor better than me? How many pairs of underwear packed for a vacation qualifies you for psychopath status?

 I’m about to go on a cruise for a week. That was a sampling of the crazy shit that pinballs around in my head. I’m not bringing 7 pairs of shoes. Shoes are heavy and I’m not that stupid contrary, to public opinion. I’m only bringing 5 and 1 pair of slippers. I’m wound tighter that my catholic Grandmother at the sight me walking around without a shawl on. “You’ll catch your death, Mija.”  It’s 67 degrees outside, I doubt pneumonia is knocking at my door.

Vacations are supposed to help one relax; that is the idea, right? Why am I panicked about whether or not the men I work with (for) are going to figure out where the toilet paper is, how to load the copier with paper, how to answer the phone, or make up their own excuses for why John can’t come to the phone and speak to angry Listing Agents and Underwriters – that shit is a full-time job in and of itself. I can’t take a shit, and I haven’t left yet.

I’ve come to understand how fucking impossible I am. I bitch and moan about how overworked I am and how long it’s been since I’ve had a vacation, then I’m granted my wish and all I can do is stress about the logistics of relaxing. Way to kill it, dumbass. 

Do I pack a bathing suit? Will the weather be permitting? How many socks? I bet I can wash my clothes in the shower. Is that gross? Are the rules for boarding a boat different than a plane? If I bring liquid in my luggage, am I going to hold up the line when they have to open my bag and find mouthwash and thermal spray protectant for my hair? Fresh breath and shiny hair is important. Fuck, people are going to be pissed. They’ll walk along the ship for the rest of their vacation resentful at me for being the shithead that ‘didn’t know the rules or care to read them’. You know what? I don’t care to read the fine print. I never read instructions; that’s why all my furniture looks like a Picasso painting. In actuality, these people will never think of me again except to laugh at me. I’m just not that important and neither are you.

I spend an absurd amount of time wondering what others think of me. That’s the biggest fucking waste of time ever. People don’t give a shit. People are most often too busy thinking about themselves, perhaps even obsessing about how they, themselves, are perceived by others. Those that don’t give a shit any which way are likely narcissistic sociopaths. It’s almost enviable. Imagine how much time could be freed up I wasn’t freaking out about if I was doing something to so-and-so’s liking. I might have time to figure out what to pack for this stupid vacation.

I’ll likely expand on this train of thought when I’m not consumed with what you think about me and how much packing I have yet to do. 

I have to get 6 men prepared for the fact that I won’t be there for them for the next week. It’s a little like telling your toddler that you’ll pick them up after daycare, only I have 6 of them and daycare is 7 days long. I can actually feel the acid rise in my stomach and into my throat as I type this. I predict that I will get no less than 20 text messages and 12 emails in my absence. This is not self-inflated delusions of grandeur. I wish it were. This is working with a group of men that have come to rely on you and also see you as family. Maybe that’s the key; as family I should be cool telling them to go fuck themselves.

Back to where this all started: how many pairs of underwear is too many?