The Packing Circus

Packing is a fundamental process needed for overnights, long weekends, or pretty much any time you leave the house for any amount of time. I, somehow, manage to make this packing thing a circus every single time I go anywhere — which, over the last five months, has been quite a bit. And despite all that practice, the packing process has not gotten any easier.

Today is the last day I have to pack before we leave, and naturally, I am sitting here writing instead.

When leaving for any length of time, you’re supposed to check the weather for every country you’re visiting. You’re supposed to make sure you have clothes for all seasons, extras for when the weather inevitably decides to do something unexpected, and somehow still manage to keep one suitcase under 50 pounds for two people for two weeks.

That sounds reasonable in theory.

In reality, I currently have six pairs of shorts — four of them denim and heavy — seven dresses so I can wear one to dinner every night, and nine shirts that are meant to rotate between shorts and skirts. Socks and underwear are accounted for. The overnight bag is filled to the rim with makeup, hair products, face products, sunscreen, and what has now become known as the emergency kit.

After getting sick on the last trip and having to buy what I’m fairly certain was Spanish-labeled Sudafed — I don’t read or speak Spanish, but my husband assured me it was correct — the emergency kit became non-negotiable. I replenished soaps, shampoos, hairspray, and added every “just in case” item I could think of.

I finally weighed it.

Six pounds.

Six pounds of just-in-case.

How do women make it in this world needing all of these things?

I usually take four or five pairs of shoes, two bathing suits, water shoes, and somewhere around thirty outfits for a two-week trip. Yes, I know I don’t wear all thirty outfits, but here’s my logic: every morning at home, I wake up and decide what I’m going to wear based on the weather, my mood, and whatever plans we have that day. So how exactly am I supposed to know what I’ll want to wear six days from now? Twelve days from now?

At home, I have my entire wardrobe available for decision-making. Now I’m supposed to narrow that down to half of a 50-pound suitcase?

Is the man I married crazy?

How does he expect me to look good and dressed up when I only have one pair of glittered dress shoes and ten pairs of underwear? For those who don’t know, I once brought 47 pairs of underwear to Cancun for a four-day anniversary trip. It has since become a running joke. I was pulling underwear out of pockets and packing cubes I didn’t even remember filling.

Seven-day cruises have two formal nights. That means I can only bring one formal dress this time because the suitcase now weighs 52.3 pounds, and apparently physics does not care that there is still room inside the bag.

So here we are.

One 52.3-pound suitcase.
One 20-pound carry-on.
One 14-pound carry-on.
And my purse.

We leave tomorrow. No more repacking.

But let’s see what I forget and end up buying in Colombia.