The Perils of Packing, Unpacked

One of life's most despised undertakings laid bare; trigger warning

There is probably no phrase I invoke more often than, “Oh my god, I hate packing”. It’s almost a mantra. I don’t think I can even touch a suitcase without the phrase erupting out of me. I suspect I’m not alone. I find it impossible to imagine anyone ever in the history of human civilization saying “I love packing”; if such a person exists, please call me immediately.

Photo by Amy Shamblen on Unsplash

I travel a lot. Whenever I mention my hatred of packing, my friends will say, “But you travel so much! You must be used to it!” No, friends: I just have more occasions for hating it. It is a hateful activity. Doing it more often is like having a tooth drilled without anesthesia: Having it last longer does not lessen the pain.

From where does this terribleness arise? I have theories. First of all, it is probably displaced anxiety about leaving home, going into the unknown. Fair enough. But there’s more. Packing makes me stupid. It makes me feel like I literally can’t think. When I’m getting ready for a trip, I begin by trying to imagine the weather at my destination. I’ve got a good imagination, but when applied to this exercise, I blank. If at home it’s springtime and in the 70s, that becomes the only condition I can possibly conjure.

Recently I left my home in Los Angeles (springtime, 70s) to be in Chicago for a few weeks. I read, exhaustively, neurotically, March and April weather forecasts for Chicago, which suggested it would be in the 40s or so, possibly drizzly, possibly a spit of snow. These aren’t extraordinary weather conditions, and it just so happens that I grew up in the Midwest and am deeply familiar with what early spring there is like. But for purposes of packing, I was dumbstruck. Holy crap, what does “in the 40s” feel like? Is that really cold? I think it’s cold. Do I need fleece? Down? Long underwear? Boots? Or—wait—isn’t that actually kind of spring-like? Shirtsleeves, maybe a cotton sweater? Will I get hot? With regards to weather, I feel like I’m being asked to imagine life in an unexplored, unimaginable galaxy, rather than a place I know. Please tell me this happens to you.

I also get flummoxed trying to prepare for circumstances. Even if I have a detailed itinerary that could guide me, packing stupidity erases my ability to imagine what it means. Let’s take a trip where I’ll be doing an event in the evening that’s casual but work-adjacent. I don’t want to look fancy but also not like someone who just fetched up from the street. Since this accounts for many events on my calendar, you’d think I would have developed something of a uniform to deal with it. A sweater set, perhaps, and black pants, and maybe a pointy-toe shoe with a tiny heel. But when I’m packing, I go berserk, imagining that this is a setting unlike any setting I have ever encountered and therefore I can’t begin to pack properly. The torture is real.

One of my most persistent packing dilemmas was when I used to go home to see my parents. They lived in Cleveland, in the suburbs, and I was quite a student of what the dress code there was—colorful but conservative, nothing with weird angles or peculiar shapes. Tasteful. I owned very little that hewed to that description. Before my trips there, I surveyed my wardrobe with despair; everything looked too Japanese, too black, too asymmetrical. I wanted to dress like the suburban lady my parents hoped I would be. Of course, I failed, because I didn’t have that clothing, and it wouldn’t have made sense to pretend that I did. I wanted to fit in, to not look like a renegade who had fled Cleveland for New York City. But I had.

I used to deal with my anxiety about packing by taking tons with me. I was hedging my bets, making sure that I had clothing for every possible microclimate, every slight variation in the ambience of where I would be. I was the doofus who fumbled through the airport with too many suitcases, loaded on a trolley. The sad thing is that whenever I got where I was going, I ended up wearing perhaps ten percent of what I had brought, and to my astonishment I was fine with that, and no one gave a damn anyway.

What broke me of this habit was a trip I took to Turkey with my boyfriend John. The trip was going to last five days, at the end of December; it would be chilly and maybe rainy, and we would be outside sightseeing, and inside museums, and lounging around but also going out for nice dinners. To me, this called for a steamer trunk, at the very least. A few days before we left, John said, very gently, that he assumed I would only be taking carry-on luggage: One small piece. I threw a fit. Who is this person? Is he a madman? After I calmed down, John pleaded with me to consider that we would be changing planes, and moving hotels, and that a carry-on would be so much easier than having a wagon train loaded with baggage. He had a point. As much as it went against my constitution, I decided to try. I packed nothing but black clothes—better to mix and match—plus a few pretty scarves (to cut the funereal vibe) and one fleece and one raincoat, which added together equally the impact of a winter coat. Of course it was perfect, and sufficient, and I had everything I needed and even a little bit more. I know I impressed John, because he proposed to me in Istanbul on New Year’s Eve.

On my honeymoon, the happy result of having figured out how to travel with only a carry-on

SHOW NOTES

—I still have packing anxiety but I have compiled a few hot tips that help ease the pain:

—As I said in the last Wordy Bird, Birkenstocks! They work as slippers; they work for quick trips to the lobby when you don’t want to put on shoes; with socks you can wear them in any weather except rain, and obviously without socks they’re perfect for warm weather.

—Take more socks than you think you need. Trust me.

—I don’t only pack black anymore, but I do color-restrict even when it makes me want to cry. The darling bright red pants that you want to bring even though everything else in your suitcase is navy and black: Don’t.

—If you don’t wear it at home, you will not wear it on a trip. I speak from experience.

—This may sound like dorky advice from a ladies’ magazine, but a few scarves will do you well. If one is big enough to also wear as a skirt, you’re leveling up. Also, you won’t mind wearing a limited wardrobe if you bring accessories that aren’t boring, and they don’t take up much room.

—I have never traveled (successfully) without having one black T-shirt, one black long-sleeved top, and a black sweater. Or make them all navy or brown or something else in that vein. If you throw in a skirt in that same color, you can go almost anywhere. Years ago, I was in Florida working on The Orchid Thief, and my dad called and said he was coming down to visit and attend a cousin’s wedding. I agreed to go with him. The day of the wedding he mentioned, casually, that it was black tie. Nice, Dad! My trusty black long-sleeved top (which was actually something from REI or somewhere gorpy) and my not-very-fancy black skirt, with a necklace I found that afternoon at a department store, saved me.

—A pair of sneakers, obviously, no matter what.

—I have come to realize, late in life, that bringing one pair of shoes with a heel is life-changing. Even worn with jeans, they make you look dressed-up.

—A hat. Even a baseball hat. But you really need a hat.

—Stuff that you might not think of: Several pens. A small roll of packing tape—I know that sounds weird, but I have a million times needed packing tape, either for sealing a box to send home, or to repair something, and it’s such a pain to find it. Just take some.