Please note, this is the FIRST installment of a fictional series I will be including on my blog weekly! Comments and feedback are encouraged!
The moving boxes have all been packed. Packed is definitely the way I would describe the cardboard cubes at this point. Dad is only allowing me to pack six boxes, in addition to three duffle bags, and two rolling suitcases. What he doesn’t understand is that I have already cut down my shoe collection to 35 pairs. Confession: It’s really 40, but I’m considering my Jack Rogers sandals as half since they’re flat, Shhh! What he also doesn’t understand is that I simply cannot make my bed without four pillows: one sham, one monogrammed regular pillow, one European sham, and one decorative pillow. I know Mom understands because she taped up the bulging boxes while I squeezed the flaps closed as tight as I possibly could.
I’ve carefully folded my polos, shift dresses, critter shorts, and cardigans to minimize wrinkles. Dad doesn’t understand that I need to bring my four navy sweaters; they’re most certainly not the same. Mom understands because she helped me hide another one inside my black pea coat. Confession: I hid a fifth one in my right Hunter Wellington. As I watch my once color-coded and fully stocked closet dwindle to a mere skeleton, I vow not to gain the proverbial, and dreaded, Freshman 15. I love my collection of J. Crew shorts too much to not be able to fit into them.
Just as I’m rolling my hair ribbons into perfect, tight curls, Dad walks in, and with more than a slight disappointed tone, grumbles, “Addie…” I absolutely cannot stand it when people call me Addie.
“My name is Adelaide, Dad.”
“I thought we talked about your hair ribbons.”
“Hair bows are my signature.”
He’s worried that I will be thought of as child if I wear my grosgrain ribbons around my smooth ponytails. Mom and Dad both agree that I should have ditched my bows around the age of six. I not-so-politely roll my eyes, and continue to manage the sea of ribbons I’m sitting in.
* * *
The six moving boxes, three duffel bags, and suitcases have overtaken every free square inch of the Volvo. Confession: There are really seven boxes; I simply could not part with my personalized stationery, my six photograph albums, or all four editions of my high school yearbook. Dad, as expected, comments that when Preston (my older, yet much more immature, brother) went to State University, he only brought two duffels.
While most of my friends are attending State University, I am venturing across three state borders to study at Fitzgerald College in Virginia. I will certainly miss the balmy, year-long-summer state that is Florida. I guess technically Virginia is still the south, but it’s a big trip north for me.
Before we even hit the road, Dad, Mom, and I debate over which radio station will be played. Within two minutes of leaving the driveway, I stick my earphones into my ears, scroll through my pale pink iPod, and attempt to drone out whatever it is Dad considers music.
My mind wanders. First, I make a mental list of all the things I’m going to miss. Once the list exceeds number 126, I decide I should stop, as tears have begun to smudge my brown (never black) mascara. My friends, parents, and bed are at the top of my “I’ll Miss List.”
After I count exactly seven red vehicles, twelve semi-trucks, and forty-one palm trees, I decide to stop wallowing and to start my “I’m Excited For List.”
- New friends
- Football games
- Fitzgerald College Boat Club
- Boys…
I don’t get much farther than number four. Confession: I’m a little boy crazy.
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