Trying on clothes and dancing in front of the mirror is how everyone packs, right?

So, on the eve of my second trip to New York to hang with one of my oldest gal pals, I have begun to pack. By "eve" I mean morning and by pack, I mean try on all of my clothes and leave them in a rejected pile on a heap in various rooms of my apartment. (Another bonus point to living along, folks.)

I have a tradition for packing, though. I am incapable of putting something in my suitcase unless it has been tried on, wiggled around to whatever music might be playing on the radio (or P.I.C.'s old ipod, thanks, Diddy!) for moveability purposes. It's just how I roll. Of course, I invariably forget something critical and end up having to go shopping, but that's neither here nor there.

I recall one such packing episode. I was at my last apartment that had walls of paper. Literally, I felt like I was a part of my neighbors sex acts sometimes, the walls were truly that thin. Well, I had just moved in and was getting ready to go visit another gal pal in Florida. I had my music on, my wardrobe out, and believe I in the process of testing the comfort and moveability of the outfits in front of my mirror when and having quite the time of it when I heard the pounding on my door. Unfortunately, my mirror was right behind my front door and I was mid-wardrobe change. Alright, I was dancing in my underwear. And my neighbor was piiiiissssssed.

So I eeked out a "Just a minute" and ran for a t-shirt to cover up.

N: "You know that your music is really very loud."

FA: "Ummm, I'm so sorry. I'll turn it down."

N: "Just so you know, I'd appreciate it if you'd watch the volume."

FA: "Sure." (Shut the door, then flip her the bird. Jeerrrrrk.)

It's really hard to continue a dancing in the mirror packing party when you know your neighbor is judging. I'm sorry Madonna wasn't your thing, neighbor, but Vogue almost always start plays spontaneously when I pull my suitcase out. I don't know how to control that. Madonna trumps your personal comfort, you old stodgy jerk. (For what it's worth, she was a young-ish girl who always had a frown. Not surprising we never got to know each other.)

My neighbors now are way more tolerant. That and I am packing to WGN morning news. I'm really getting old. However a brief perusal of my apartment insists that some things will never change.