This past weekend I started packing for my surgery and my stay in Montana. Because I'm going on a business trip for five days next week, I only have 13 days left before I leave Colorado.
So I pulled out my shoe puller-on-er, my long-handled loofah, my reacher. Then, from the depths of my closet, I pulled out The Crutches. Holding them in my hands, my heart absolutely sank. My eyes started to well up, and I was forced to put them back, lest I start crying like a baby. While my recovery was very straightforward and much easier than I expected, those crutches ... well, they suck. I hate 'em. They will remain in the closet until the day I leave town so I'm not reminded of how irritating it is to not have my hands (and my leg) free.
The rest I can pack ahead of time. But like an old boyfriend, The Crutches and I have too much history to just be hanging out.