Shoelry, Suitcases, and Stuff

I admit it. I’m an over-packer.
Well, actually I’m not sure if “over-packer” is a real word, but it should be, because I know I can’t be the only one who shoves eight outfits into a small duffle for a two-day trip.
Seriously, I don’t know about y’all, but I never know what I’m going to wear until the very last minute and I usually need at least three wardrobe changes until I finally get it right. Throw in the fact that a woman must then accessorize with purses, belts, jewelry, scarves, shoes and such, it’s a miracle we ever really know what to pack at all. My latest fix for this universal problem was to buy the biggest, most obnoxiously large, black suitcase that I could find. My husband promptly dubbed her “the coffin.” Aside from being able to comfortably house/hide a dead body, she can also easily fit the entire contents of your closet, armoire, shower caddy, pantry, and purse.
I love my suitcase. I really do. Not as much as I love my husband and my children, of course, but she always comes through for me when I need her to.
This will probably not come as a big surprise, but my husband actually hates “the coffin” and I’m pretty sure that he plots ways to destroy her while I sleep. This could be because he’s the one who has to carry her down two flights of stairs, then lift her in and out of the back of the Yukon and, if we’re flying, back her up onto the scale before they put her on the conveyor belt to what you hope and pray with all your might is the right airplane. You know, the one you’re actually flying on.
The weighing part, incidentally, is always a nail biter because if she’s over fifty pounds you have to fork over the amount of your monthly mortgage payment to get her on board. My husband emphatically and repeatedly tells me on the drive to the airport that this is something he will never, ever do. So while he’s complaining about the lack of airline accountability, I’m running through the contents of “the coffin” in my head trying to figure out what I can live without if I have to dump something out to save a few pounds.
One trip though, I had an epiphany of sorts when my husband correctly – but a little too sarcastically for my tastes -- pointed out that I could save five pounds by leaving my hair dryer at home seeing as they’ve had one attached to the bathroom wall of pretty much every hotel room we’ve ever been in.
Now you may find this hard to believe, but, except for one summer when Stephen King’s 1,500 page tome Duma Key tipped the scales against me, I’ve been surprisingly lucky. I might not have had to purge, but “the coffin” always seems to end up wearing a big, red tag that spells out HEAVY in big, black letters. It’s kind of like wearing a sign that says, “Hey folks, look at me! I over-packed!” And yes, I will only wear a tenth of what is in my suitcase, but I can live with that, whereas I can’t live with the thought of not having the right pair of shoes.
Another reason my husband is not the biggest fan of my suitcase is that he’s the one who has to roll “the coffin” around the airport, knocking down small children, rental car patrons, and frequent flyers along the way. It’s not my fault his momma raised him, even if I do get the unexpected benefit of rolling his teeny, tiny, actually-fits-in-the-overhead suitcase that’s as light as marshmallow fluff.
To me, his bag is an enigma. How can he pack four days worth of clothes into a suitcase that can barely hold all my hair products? But somehow, he does it. He’ll come out of the hotel room for the second night in a row in a different suit and, for the life of me, I’ll still be trying to figure out where it came from.
I know, I know. Guys just don’t need as much stuff. One blue shirt. Check. One white shirt. Check. Pair of khaki pants. Check. Toothbrush. Check. Boxers with holes in them. Check. They don’t need headbands, wraps, bangles, tights, pins, purses, or slips. Just slip on a watch and a pair of shoes that they’re usually wearing anyway, and they’re good to go. Heck, instead of needing a bag, they even get to bring their jewelry with them on their shoes, which my husband has lovingly dubbed “shoelry.” I’m pretty sure “shoelry” isn’t a real word either, but it should be. I mean; how ingenious is that?
Is it easier to be a guy sometimes? I guess so. I just happen to like all the other “stuff” that goes along with being a female, even if it does weigh more. But as the years go by, I’m learning to make do with less. Stuff becomes just that . . . stuff. What I bring with me these days is more important: the stuff you can’t fold, press, or fluff. Stuff like family, friendships, love, and laughter. Stuff that doesn’t take up space, but fills it instead.
I’m even happy to report that I left “the coffin” at home this summer and brought my trusty Vera Bradley duffle on our trip. Did I miss my old suitcase? Sure, but somehow I survived without her. Not to mention that my husband didn’t have to visit the chiropractor and or even reach for the bottle of Advil once while we were gone. I never thought it would be possible, but maybe I’m finally outgrowing the old girl after all.