I'm packing. I hate packing. Unpacking is arguably worse, but I can't think about that now.

I leave tomorrow afternoon to spend Passover in Florida with my relatives. Know this now: I loathe Florida. It's flat and it's humid and it's got giant bugs and people drive worse than they do in Boston, which is saying something. Also, everyone in Florida has the concept of air conditioning mixed up with refrigeration, so I'm constantly going straight from subtropical to arctic when I'm there.

I don't have to bring much, though, which is cool, so I can take my little suitcase. I hauled it down earlier tonight and put fresh tape on it. I use strips of red electrical tape so I can pick it out more easily from all the other little black ballistic nylon suitcases at the baggage claim. I picked up that trick from my father, who is, among other qualities, a seasoned and savvy traveler.

I would be less stressed right now if I'd been able to work out today, but my guardian angel was asleep on the job this morning. As was I, apparently. I just need to stay away from sharp objects until I'm fully caffeinated.

My mother tells me that the extra room on American really makes a difference. She's about 5'8. I'm about 5'2. "My feet still won't reach the floor," I told her.

"Your feet don't reach the floor on a plane?" She was amazed. "I never thought of that. Maybe they could bring you a kneeler, like in a church." That's the best idea I've heard yet. I'm always uncomfortable on planes. The seat is too high and my feet dangle for three hours. The headrest for the seat is too high and pushes my head forward at an odd angle. And so on.

But I'll come home Sunday to raw, rainy weather and another trip to Florida survived.