“You’re going for 2 weeks, you need 7 outfits plus a swimming costume and you can do laundry when you’re there. One pair of flip flops and you’re golden”
He sounded so pleased with himself at his idea of what ‘packing for a two week holiday which included a wedding’ was. Of course, he had no idea because this was a man who owned the most capsule of all the wardrobes in the land and thought that hiking boots were suitable for formal occasions. He also had a magic backpack like a Mary Poppins bag because it seemed like no matter how long he was going away for, his stuff fit in it. This I attribute to two things:
A) He was a master of the art of packing light.
B) He was a grotsky byotch who didn’t wash.
Maybe a little from column A, a little from column B?
I of course usually go to the other extreme – my packing list for the Cuba wedding covered several pages and all eventualities, apart from the one where I break my arm due to having the WORLD’S HEAVIEST SUITCASE that is. We abide by a rule at work of ‘you pack it, you carry it’ so there are no princesses allowed who pack all their worldly belongings and then flutter their eyelashes to get someone to help with their bag that contains seventeen pairs of shoes ‘just in case’.
Yay for equality! *waves equality hooray flag* but Christ alive I need to learn the art of packing light before my arms drop off. I just have this fear of getting somewhere and not having ‘the right clothes’ – it doesn’t help that my employer provided suitcase is called ‘ROLLING THUNDER’ and fits a stonking 120 LITRES.
Amazing for holding a multitude of crap but honestly, the turning circle on that suitcase is the same as trying to turn an oil tanker around. Something I learnt the hard way when I finally arrived in my hotel room in St Louis, MO en route to my gal’s bachelorette party. Picture the scene, I’ve dragged this case approximately 15 miles from reception, battled to get it through the door and immediately dropped it. Then I noticed what I thought was a bible on the bed, so I picked it up wondering if I’d booked myself into some happy clappy hotel.
It wasn’t a bible, it was a United States Postal Service handbook.
Weird, thought I. Maybe it’s a Missouri thing. Extra pride in the men and women who move their mail?
Then I clocked the laptop on the desk and the sports bag on the floor. In a split second, it dawned on me that I was not alone. I grabbed the handle on my bag and started trying to wrangle it around and was about 8 turns into a 56 point manoeuvre when I looked up at the old man who had emerged from the bathroom in just a towel. I burbled a mortified apology and got back to trying to get out of the fucking room.
If I hadn’t packed like I thought the apocalypse was going to hit I’d have been able to hightail it out of there lickety split but instead, the fact I’d packed like a total fanny meant I was stuck in there far longer than was comfortable.
Of course, I also have no ability to judge how heavy a suitcase actually is when I pick it up. I spent the car journey to the airport for a night in Scotland stressed that my suitcase was going to be well over the limit (23kgs) and because I was flying Budget Air I’d get stung for a massive wedge of cash. I queued up at the desk, heaved it onto the belt whilst pulling a grimace and grabbing my wallet waiting for the bad news.
I’d achieved the seemingly impossible –
It was a paltry 9kgs.