January 20, 2012
Surprise inside.
I’m packing. No, I don’t have a tommy gun inside a violin case, or a bazooka inside an upright bass case, or a Sherman tank inside an inflatable model decoy of a Sherman tank. What I do have, however, is a suitcase, some socks, a few shirts, and a crippling bout of anxiety. Why am I anxious? I’m so glad you asked that uncannily on-point question! I’m anxious because packing, for lack of a better word, sucks paint chips (fine, three words). Think about it: you are setting aside outfits for your harshest critic–yourself. With just one momentary lapse in judgement, your future self will be having a cow when they unzip your suitcase and find that you’ve forgotten to pack underwear and an angry and confused Cat jumps out of the folds and latches onto their face (that’s right, you packed Cat). In a way, suitcases are like horrible little time capsules that show your future self what life was like back in the days of two days ago when you were frantically preparing for a weekend getaway with Wife. Ah, to be young and foolish and terrible at packing again! If you’re still not sure what I mean, take this simple test. Have you ever opened your suitcase on vacation and uttered, in hushed tones, “Was I drunk when I packed this?” If so, congratulations. You’re just like me! But don’t worry. There’s an easy fix to this idiotic problem. All you have to do is try on every single outfit you are packing, and look in the mirror. If you look like a clown, DON’T PACK IT.
A case of Merlot.
After “There’s an easy fix to this idiotic problem,” you should have written: ” Answer ‘yes’ when you ask yourself, ‘Was I drunk when I packed this?’”
As my editor, how much would you charge me for that revision?
I thought the solution was to buy a bigger suitcase and pack EVERYTHING.
That’s called moving.