Getting Gone

    It took exactly one hour and thirty seven minutes to make arrangements to be away from my life for two whole weeks.  Pathetic, huh?  What's worse is that one hour and thirty two of those minutes were spent franticlly pillaging my closet trying decide what to pack for this crazy trip.  I spent the other five minutes walking upstairs and asking my neighbor to get my mail and to keep an eye on my place.  When he opened the door, I had to remind him who I was since I had never spoken to him in the five years that I'd lived there.  Despite my past unfriendliness, he agreed to help me out. 
    It took almost as long, earlier that morning, to get my boss to agree to let me take a two week leave of absence on such short notice.  I told her I needed a mental vacation. And since I had not taken any sort of vacation for three years, she didn't have much of an argument.  After much begging and pleading on her part, for me not to go, she agreed to two weeks and two weeks only. 
    That was it, my life in a nutshell.  Literally.  No friends close enough to care that I would be gone, no pets to make arrangements for, not even any old milk to pour down the drain.  Just work and my endless supply of gossip magazines to worry about. 
    So by by Ten A.M. I was standing alone at the curb bundled in my favorite khaki trench coat with my two red suitcases, waiting for the yellow cab to take me to Jax's downtown loft address.  I could see my breath and I was beginning to lose sensation in my fingers, despite my black leather isotoners.  I was really beginning to like the idea of escaping these midwest winter temperatures.