I figure that instructions are given for a reason — and no matter how many times I’m proven wrong, I continue to follow any instructions that I receive, dutifully completing each required piece of an assignment; meticulously acquiring and donning required attire; and conscientiously arranging in my luggage each required item on my packing list.

The responses that follow each such bout of adherence to instruction tend to lie somewhere on a spectrum that consists of amusement (“You’re so cute," said in a condescending voice), confusion (“Oh, uh, no, you didn’t really need to do that, I guess," said in a piqued voice), disbelief (“You really thought you’d need that?" asked quizzically), and disparagement (“I don’t know why you do all this stuff," huffed in an irritated voice). Many of my peers seem to intuit when to ignore and when to heed certain instructions, leaving me with the unnerving sense that I missed an early life lesson in subtle messaging. Let me share with you one such instance that has been nagging at my sensibilities for almost a year now.

It is a menacing cloud that continues to creep ominously, threateningly, toward the otherwise fair-weather memories of my time at a writing workshop in the high desert of the Rocky Mountains. Since attending this program, my attempts to write with gravitas — whether through tapping laptop keys or placing pencil to paper — are often flooded by the lingering recollection of excess baggage that inconveniently stretched my duffel suitcase to its limits — those unnecessary items that were detailed on a carefully crafted and required packing list, but that I never did use. But it’s not just the spacial inconvenience of the situation; it’s the cognitive dissonance that I experienced when almost everyone else attending the program seemed to mysteriously have known in advance — without ever making inquiries to the program coordinators ahead of time — which items weren’t really supposed to take up room in their luggage, despite being placed prominently on said packing list.

I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let me transport you to the beginning of the saga: I’m sitting cross-legged on the cozy, flowered comforter atop my bed, hunched toward my computer. I’m reviewing the acceptance letter for this remote, mountainous workshop for intensive writing — the message is warm and engaging, and I am grateful for the opportunity. So, as most reasonable people might, I open the packing list that has been tucked in with the acceptance letter. My eyes widen as I scan the meandering bullet points — a bicycle helmet (there were no bikes on the property), a raincoat (locating the raincoat took longer than the thunderstorms that careened across the yard), a flashlight (we used our phones), a swimsuit (there was nary a pool or pond in sight), and — and p-cord? What even is p-cord? I wonder.

As my instinct for rule-following kicks in, I’m overcome with determination to solve this conundrum so that I can comply precisely with the instructions. So, I turn to the trusty world of Google. P-cord, I type, awaiting the endless blue waterfalls of answers that I know soon will appear before me. According to the ever-reliable source of Wikipedia, “Parachute cord" — ­oh, not palliative or palpable or possibility cord — "is a lightweight nylon kernmantle " — ah ha, of Germanic origin! — "rope originally used in the suspension lines of parachutes. This cord is now used as a general purpose" — relief to hear — "utility cord.” Okay, I suppose … but how is this p-cord going to enhance my work during a writing program?

So, I open a new tab — uses of p-cord, I type. Oh, my goodness, I think, as I nervously scan the links appearing on my screen. Am I going to get lost in the woods and need to whip together a paracord survival belt? We certainly won’t be constructing a paracord writing hammock, will we? That’ll take a lot more cord than I can fit in my duffel. And under what circumstance will I be struggling without the assistance of a paracord survival donut? I don’t think I should even look up the function of a giant paracord monkey fist. Oh my — it’s also used to fashion paracord bullwhips and paracord rifle slings! I’m now slightly terrified.

But there’s no time to ruminate on my terror — there are instructions to follow, so I am faced with a more immediately pressing matter — how much of such a material will be acceptable to tote in my luggage? Fervor sparking in my eyes, I call the number at the bottom of one of the numerous workshop emails in my inbox and pose this question to the program coordinator.

“Ten feet of p-cord!” is the enthusiastic response. “We can’t wait to work with you!”

Still, the reason for this rope’s essence remains elusive. But the call has committed me to bringing the cord — I mean, how would I look if I went to all that trouble to ascertain details and then didn’t even bring the item? Dubious, I bike to the local hardware shop, and I ask a salesman where I can find p-cord and how I can cut it to 10 feet. He explains that I can reel my desired amount off of a massive industrial-sized roll that is set glowering on thin, but hardy metal shelves, measure the specified length of 10 feet, and chop it with a built-in wire cutter right then and there. I thank him with a false air of comprehension and confidence, walk toward the indicated aisle, strain to pull off a length of p-cord, and aggressively sever it somewhere (hopefully) in the vicinity of 10 feet.

As I pack my bag, I carefully include those precious 10 feet of p-cord, along with every other item on that now-infamous packing list, and off I fly to the mountains.

Soon after my arrival, the contents of my duffel begin to separate like layers of oil in water. Up rise my favorite jeans and fleece, my essential notebook and computer, my attempt-to-keep-things-hygienic shower caddy. Down sink my sun hat, my bicycle helmet, two of my three one-liter water bottles, and, of course, those 10 feet of p-cord. The existence of the rope — including my brief dive into Wikipedia, my perplexing phone call with the program coordinator, and my wearying trip to the hardware shop — is nearly forgotten, as I immerse myself in the program with passion.

But, one day, closer to the end of my stay, as I am rummaging around the very depths of my luggage, hastily attempting to locate any backup notebook without dried food crusted onto it, my pinky finger is suddenly entangled in what feels like a cat’s cradle gone awry. A moment of nostalgia for my meticulous packing is quickly replaced by a familiar head-scratching. Why were such lengths taken to make sure I brought exactly 10 feet of p-cord if there has been no actual use for it?

Somehow, I simply can’t shake this discrepancy from my mind; I feel compelled to investigate through conversations with peers and staff. I learn that, out of the 22 students currently at the workshop, only one other person has bothered to adhere to the list and bring the p-cord. I learn that I was the only person to confirm the exact amount necessary. And I learn that the three staff members who live off-campus paid no mind whatsoever to the packing list as a whole! What force, I wonder, has caused everyone other than me to ignore with such irreverence the directions provided so conveniently to us — and why have these details been offered in the first place if they are so wholly irrelevant?

Despite my numerous attempts since returning home to banish these parasitic questions from harassing my brooding reveries, they have continued to nag me insolently. It certainly doesn’t help that the 10 feet of unused p-cord remain perched anxiously in my family’s garage, just waiting for — I’m not sure — perhaps a parachute to float in through the side window and relieve their prolonged boredom.

As for me, in the back of my mind lurk wild and daring aspirations of barely scanning the next instruction list that comes my way — severing all tethers and relying only on my own checklist — disregarding the requests and guidelines of any coordinated effort to organize me — so that I will finally fit and flow with those who glide through life with nary a concern for items unread, unchecked, ignored, forgotten — one who simply knows which items are actually essential and desired.

But that is the wrench, the stoppage, the bolt on the door, isn’t it? Because I still don’t know. Remember, I missed that life lesson. So I concede that I will persist in studying instructions and lists, line by line, fearing that any item I do choose to dismiss will end up being the one that I actually wasn’t supposed to ignore.

One year later, I find myself preparing for a semester of studying abroad in Mexico with a group of American students. I am scouring the packing list that has been sent by the program coordinator. There is a clear and firm directive to bring and wear more formal attire — in fact, a definitive notch up from American schools. Understanding the need to respect the host city’s culture, I place aside my familiar T-shirts, jean shorts, and jeggings, and I set to work picking out sundresses, gauchos, and rompers. In order to save space, I pack only one pair of jeans for comfort in my residence. 

Our Spanish immersion experience at the local high school begins the day after we arrive in Mexico. I decide on a modestly cut floral jumper for my first day. I step out of my host family’s car and walk toward the entrance to the schoolyard. As I swing open the gate, I am greeted by an ocean of blue jeans on every local student — and, as my fellow students from the U.S. converge at our designated meeting spot, I see that they, too, all are dressed in denim and T-shirts. A life lesson missed, certainly.