"ישׁ לכּם אספּירין?"
"Yesh la-khem as-pee-REEN?"
"Do you have aspirin?"
Like ice dancing and bonsai gardening, packing is best left to the professionals.
I packed (with a lot of parental help) to move to and from college four times, to and from grad school four times, and to and from my teaching job twice.
I am a professional.
I am also the daughter of an engineer. And I come from a long line of independent-minded women.
For the uninitiated, this is a potent combination that ultimately produces a feminist with quiltmaking scraps tied around her head, ripping packing tape with her teeth and issuing threats to anyone who packs or tapes or, indeed, moves in a non-approved fashion. I scared myself.
Scientists are not used to such raw unravelling; they prefer to do things in their own cohesive, perfection-seeking ways. But two perfectionists can bring any process to a halt.
J packed everything, a week ago, just "to see" what we had to work with and whether we would need more boxes. The shipping guy, Georges, in a moment of prescience, left us three new boxes after we signed the contract, despite J's protests that we wouldn't need them.
I repacked, the day before Georges arrived, according to My Way, which, it turns out, is actually My Dad's Way, and woe to him who questions it.
"I'm not being arrogant," I told J. "This is just what works. How many boxes have you packed, in your life?"
His look told me to forget the tape and remember a little humility.
This time, we went out for falafel and hummus (shakshouka).
Forget about two years in the Middle East, as a test; any marriage that can survive the upheaval of packing is on firm ground.
Any husband that can survive feminism and independence is rare.
