I have to leave the for the airport in an hour and fifteen minutes.

I am sitting on my sofa in a bathrobe with my wet hair wrapped in towel. Nothing is packed (though honestly, my bags are always half packed — power cords, emergency tea bags filled with jasmine pearl tea, emergency emergen-c — all the essentials).

I checked in online to discover I have elite access and a free upgrade to first class on my next trip. BP must have used his info, since I always forget to claim my miles and I fly a lot of different airlines.

I awoke last night in pain — the foot, the foot, the foot. Perhaps 12 of 13 days of exercise was a little much — or perhaps it was my 45 minutes looking for the cat in the dark last night.

The ex should be arriving shortly — he’s driving me to ABIA and then cat-sitting.

I think I am going to bring half of my wardrobe, since I can’t figure out what I want to wear. I have a meeting tonight and THE meeting tomorrow, and I cannot figure out what I want to wear on the plane. I am thinking about dressing up a bit — a pencil skirt, tights, black v-neck polo, cute short overcoat — but I just cannot decide as the clock continues to move.

In the end, I may just throw on a pair of jeans. I have no idea how long I am going to be gone, or where I am going once there. I may be back on Sunday. I may be back in weeks.

Ah, well. This is one of the reasons I like my job, I suppose: the utter randomness of it.

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