>Can you say, "high maintenance?"

>I’d about kill for a Diet Coke, but I’m stuck with water. Better for me, I know. But, the hours are closing in until I take off–twenty to be exact. My week? Here’s a little peek…

Okay, I don’t want to check-in my luggage, so I’ll take a carry on. Oh, wait…I want to bring my manuscript. I’ll need to put that in my brief case. I’ll pack that, too. Don’t want to lug that around the airport. Shoes: comfortable or beautiful? It’s a writing conference; I’m going with comfortable. They need polishing. Done. Oh God, what about my pillow. My pillow’s been around the globe. Last stop was Sicily. I’ll call the hotel and see if they have down pillows. I can’t risk a neck ache. Yes! They have down pillows; one less thing to pack. Alright, now for the outfit for the writer’s banquet. I want the business casual look, so of course, black pants and a black sweater. It’s not a funeral, though. I need a splash of color. Nothing at J.Jill, Chico’s, or any other store. T.J. Max it is. Why don’t I learn? Perfect–a fuchsia blouse, brings my face to life. Speaking of which, I’m a little pale. Nothing wrong with a round of bronzer. That’s done. Now for the search for a dozen cosmetics under three ounces. Another trip to the store. Thank you, CVS. Taxis. Haven’t taken a taxi by myself since…never. I’ll just Google taxi services in Albuquerque. Wow, $2.40 a mile. I need to pull out some cash. Over a hundred, under a hundred? What if I lose my purse or get mugged. Speaking of purse, I need that snappy black one my cousin Lisa handed down. Phone–charged. Ipod–charged. Whew…I think I’m ready.

AND THIS IS FOR A TRIP THAT WILL TAKE UP LESS THAN 24 HOURS OF MY LIFE!

Thanks to Nora Ephron and her witty writing in When Harry Met Sally, I learned the name of my diagnosis: High Maintenance. Now, unlike Sally, I’m not the worst kind: thinking I’m low maintenance when I’m really high maintenance. No, I know what I am. Plus, I have this thing called a family who is kind enough to remind me of this!

As I contemplated this on my walk with Alfi (my precious Havanese), it dawned on me that I am growing into the very person that used to send me ranting and raving. I’m the fifty-five year old woman (that’s figurative, not literal!) who cripples at spontaneous moments and needs hours of planning to leave her environment for less than a day. What is happening to me? (This is a rhetorical question…please, be kind.)  I know some of you can relate.

So, here’s how I see it: this is a dry run for when I will start my future book tour. I will have it down (how’s that for a positive spin.) That, or I will start self-medicating the week before, next time. Kidding…maybe.

• September 9, 2010
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• 4 Comments