Today for the first time I tied bandanas around my forearms, each with a hole cut in a corner for my middle finger. The back of my hands are covered along with the lower arms. Another bandana shades my upper chest, which is as red as my face. I wear a baseball hat but that does not do the job.
I used to have a collection of sunhats, from dress-up to casual to working-outside-and-grimy. During those emotional last days getting ready to vacate the house, I remember at least one straw hat fell victim to anger when I crushed and ripped it apart. Even if I kept the others, I have no idea where they are in storage.
Occasionally, while packing (even though I fully intended to get out of the house, collect the bank’s relocation check, and then kill myself) I would think “I will want that if I live.” But since I did not think car camping was a possibility, I never thought “If I live in my car I will want that.”
A failure of planning by a consummate planner. (Planning has been a mental health protector of mine for years. As long as I have a plan, I’m alright. In those last days in the house I could see no workable plan, other than suicide. Living in my car with two dogs seemed an impossible route.)