Greg and I are packing to take our annual anniversary voyage. Each year, one of us plans a vacation and keeps the destination a secret from the other, and this year Greg planned the trip. But what is a girl supposed to pack when she could be headed to Timbuktu or Transylvania or anywhere in between?
Greg laid out all the clothes he planned to take so that I could get an idea of the climate we’re heading to. He piled two long-sleeve shirts, a thick sweater, a few T-shirts, and some pants on the bed. Based on Greg’s pile, I planned to pack jeans and sweaters. If Greg is packing warm clothes, we must be headed to Antartica.
“OK, looking at this, what do you think the temperature will be there?” Greg asked me.
“Ummm, well, judging by that sweater, I would say it might get down to the forties at night,” I said. Greg frowned. “Or maybe the fifties.”
“I don’t think I’m going to take this sweater then,” Greg said, carrying the sweater back to the closet.
“Greg, do you not know what the temperature will be in this place?” I asked. Greg looked uncertain.
I’m getting nervous … the pit of my stomach is starting to twitch. Greg supposedly knows where we are going, and even he can’t figure out what to wear. But wait, does he know where we are going? Have I put my life in the hands of a crazy man?