Chapter 7
7
RUBY
I’m surrounded by a hurricane of clothes, toiletries, and an alarming number of books. My beat-up suitcase lies open on the bed, mocking me with its limited capacity. The Costa Rica retreat is still two days away, but in my world, that's practically last minute.
"Okay, Ruby," I mutter to myself, "you've got this. It's just a week in paradise. How hard can packing be?"
Spoiler alert—very hard, when you're me.
I reach for my set of packing cubes, a purchase I'd made from Amazon in a fit of organizational frenzy after binge-watching travel blogs at 2 a.m. If what the hype says is true, these little nylon pouches promise to revolutionize my packing game, not that I really have one. So far, they've mostly revolutionized my ability to curse in creative ways. And leave my clothes a wrinkled mess.
I start with my dresses, a couple cheap cotton numbers I found on the sale rack at Old Navy, carefully rolling each like I'm preparing sushi for the world's pickiest fashion critic. I move on to T-shirts, shorts, and underwear, each getting their own cube. So far, so good. When I’ve overstuffed each cube but none has yet burst at the seams, I’m pretty sure I’m winning. Until I get to my yoga pants.
"Come on," I grunt, trying to shove my Target special into my last, already-bulging cube. "You're supposed to be stretchy!"
With a final, forceful push, I hear a sound that can only be described as the death rattle of ripping nylon. The cube explodes, sending yoga pants and other garments flying across my room like they were shot out of a cannon.
Abandoning the cubes, I turn to my bookshelf. If I can't control my packing, at least I can make sure my literary babies are in order before I leave. I run my finger along the spines, smiling at the familiar titles. But then I freeze. There’s an out of place book. The urban fantasy title should not be in the middle of my romance books. That’s just wrong.
"Wait a minute," I mutter. " The Complete Guide to National Hockey League Statistics ? I definitely don't own this."
Then it clicks. Lucy, my sister-in-law-to-be, has been in my room. I adore the woman, I really do... except when she borrows books without asking. I love her, I’m glad my brother loves her, but she never puts my books back where they go. Never. And she’s been in here borrowing them again. Which is fine. Sort of. I don’t mind loaning her books to read. I just wish she’d let me put them back where they go. I make a mental note to have a talk with her about book borrowing etiquette when I get back from my trip. I’ll keep it nice, of course. I don’t want her to think I’m anal.
As I'm reshelving the hockey stats book under 'S' for 'Sports I Don't Care About', another title catches my eye. "Ooh, Tide Lines . Perfect for Costa Rica."
I pull it out and add it to my 'to-pack' pile. But then I spot Eat, Pray, Love. Well, I am going on a spiritual journey of sorts. That goes in the pile too.
Before I know it, I'm pulling books off the shelf left and right, making piles all over my floor. And I figure, while I’m at it, I might as well do a little organizing. I decide to change the order of the shelf—classics on the top, favorites after that, followed by romance, fantasy, urban fantasy, police procedurals, and so on. Settling into the task, I grab my copy of Sense and Sensibility , put it on the shelf, then take it off again. Is this a good vacation book?
But then I spot The Last Quetzal , which, given that it’s about Central America, seems totally appropriate. Goodbye, Jane Austen. I also snag the aspirational Yoga for Beginners , Lost in the Cosmos , in case I’m jonesing for some sci-fi comedy, and War and Peace in case I really want to challenge my reading speed.
Twenty minutes later, I step back to survey the damage. My 'to-pack' book pile has become a 'to-pack' mountain, threatening to topple over and bury me in a literary avalanche.
For Christ’s sake, I’m only going for one week. But I eye the books longingly. One of my worst fears is to be stuck somewhere without anything to read. So, to supplement the books I’ve chosen, I download as many ebooks as I can from the library.
Satisfied I have enough to reading material for the next several years, I take a deep breath. "Okay," I say to the judgmental silence of my room, "maybe I got a little carried away."
As I'm debating whether I can eliminate even additional paperbacks and more fully rely on ebooks, my phone buzzes with a text from my brother.
Sis, how's packing? Don’t bring too many books you nerd!
I glare at the phone. "Traitor," I mutter. But he has a point. With a heavy sigh, I start returning books to the shelf.
All good, dork
An hour later, I've managed to whittle my book selection down to a mere... fifteen. Hey, it's progress and the best part is I’ve had no anxiety attacks doing so. I turn back to my suitcase, ready to tackle the clothing situation again.
That's when I spot it. The Costa Rica retreat brochure, the one I swiped from the bulletin board at work, peeking out from under a discarded packing cube. I pick it up, scanning the itinerary for the hundredth time.
"Sunrise hike on the beach," I read aloud. "Meditation workshops. Nature hikes. Organic cooking classes." My eyes widen in horror. "Oh God, when am I supposed to read?"
Panic sets in. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? A week without books? Isn’t this supposed to be a librarian retreat? Don’t they know what bookworms we are? Maybe I can fake a sprained ankle to get out of the physical activities. There’s got to be some downtime, right?
Just as I'm considering if I can feasibly fill my water bottle with coffee instead of water—I know this is a wellness retreat but they can’t deprive me of my morning caffeine, please, no—my eyes land on the last item on the itinerary— free time for personal reflection and relaxation.
Ohthankgod.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe this won't be a total literary drought. I'll just have to be strategic about my book choices. Quality over quantity.
With renewed determination, I turn back to my packing. I may not be able to bring everything I want, but I'll be damned if I'm not the best-read girl on the beach.
As I'm carefully wedging into my suitcase The Collected Works of Jane Austen —that counts as one book, right?—a thought occurs to me. Maybe this retreat isn't just about finding inner peace or perfecting my yoga poses. Maybe it's about finding a balance—between the comfort of my beloved books and the adventure of trying something new.
I take a good look at my suitcase and heave another sigh. It’s overflowing. Way too many books. I have to stop. Just stop . So I remove each and every book, and force myself to focus on putting each one back on the shelf in its proper spot. I have some hard decisions to make.
I limit myself to two books for my suitcase and one for my carry-on. Deciding between a long epic fantasy and a shorter, smutty romance, I put them both in my suitcase and zip it closed before I can change my mind. I pick a thriller for the flight and I’m done .
Back to my clothing.
I pause, flip-flops in one hand, and imagine sand between my toes instead of my old bedroom carpet, the sound of waves instead of Dad downstairs hollering at a baseball game on TV, and most importantly, the thrill of a new experience instead of the same old-same old.
"Alright, Costa Rica," I say to my stuffed suitcase, "let's see what kind of story we can write together."
With that, I climb into bed and read until I fall asleep.