Color-coded

Ten years ago, no one would have described me as a planner. Granted, ten years ago I was 12 years old, and scarcely anyone would describe any 12-year-old as a planner, but a quick scan around my room would reveal nothing whatsoever to indicate that anything within me liked things to be ordered in any particular way--or, for that matter, in any way at all.

At some point, probably in high school, this changed, and I became a strictly regulated being with a full schedule. In college, this intensified; I discovered that, without a clean dorm room (or at least a clean desk), it was almost impossible for me to be productive. In addition, I suddenly had to face the prospect of paying my own bills out of my own wallet--not just gas money and movie tickets anymore, but tuition and living expenses and books, too. And, as those things are expensive, I got a job, then more jobs, and my schedule became something which I couldn't have escaped even if I wanted to.

But despite all this organization--or perhaps because of it--by the time I graduated college, I had determined that I had earned a little disorganization. A little time without plans, a little time in which every last bit of minutiae in my life wasn't finely humming along with my internal self-regulator. This philosophy actually started in college, in my rare and precious free moments: If I didn't absolutely have to plan something, I wouldn't.

Usually, this works out fine; I am fortunate enough to have plenty of great friends who are more ambitious when it comes to, say, travel plans. But sometimes that's not enough. And, when that's the case, I realize abruptly that I am a planner, after all.

Today, I planned my break-time trip to Thailand. Karina and I have been making preliminary plans on this trip for months--I wrote about this stage a while ago--but even pinning down dates has been difficult, let alone pinning down physical locations or, the ultimate plan, reserving plane tickets. But it has to be done, and soon.

So, today Karina and I sat down and hashed it out, finally choosing a time for certain, and working out a rough itinerary of where we wanted to go. A few hours into the process, Karina had to head for bed, but I kept at it. I couldn't seem to stop: I had to finish it, and finish it well. After a grueling whole-Internet search, I found plane tickets which should knock 30% off what we thought we would have to pay. So I took down the plane numbers, the arrival and departure times, the sites where I found the deals. I did some more research and figured out when and how we could move from Bangkok to Chiang Mai to Phuket to Krabi to Phi Phi and back again.

All pretty normal, right? You've got to know where, when, and how you're going, right?

Sure. But then came the attached maps. And the color-coded days and diagrams.

I'm pretty sure that's not normal. I'm pretty sure that, if 12-year-old me could see it, she would roll her eyes and walk away, dreading the moment when I'd force her to follow every detail of my plan, down to the minute.

Fortunately, I'm still not at that phase; I still value freedom within a vacation, but my journey from messy, disorganized child to That Person Who Color-Codes Her Itineraries is still perplexing.

Then again, 12-year-old me never got to go to Thailand. So if she wants to run screaming away from me, let her: I'll be lounging on the beach at Krabi.