It’s ‘weekend’ season, isn’t it? Mini-break season. Wedding season. Summer party season. Packing season. The season when you might fly somewhere for two days. To have fun. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that by now we’d be packing pros and able to hand luggage the fuck out of everything. You’d think that we’d be un-phased by the unknown. That a black tie dress code would be water off a grown-up duck’s back. That a beach/country/city weekend would pack its bloody self. You’d think.
But packing anxiety is peaking. First there is the bottomless need for options; to scope out the crowd and work out – in situ – whether it’s a long/short/sequinned/flats/heels/tits/conservative/whorey situation; to establish whether you should be at the shabbier, more understated end of the spectrum or if you should be giving it everything you’ve got.
Then there are products. Hair – tongs, rotting brushes, straighteners, dryers, all of which are HEAVY. Not to mention bottles. And we need our bottles and tubes and pots: night cream, morning cream, afternoon cream, primer, scent, toothpaste, body lotion, SPF, 3 different foundations and 4 different lipglosses. Oh, and balm. Now they aren’t going to fit themselves into that minute clear plastic bag now are they?
And weather. Can’t be cold, might die of misery. Can’t be hot, might die of sweat. And sun hats. Because pigmentation. And wrinkles.
So now you’re the arsehole with the enormous case when everyone else has hand luggage and they hate you because they have to wait for you or they just don’t wait for you because they warned you so you hate them. Or you’re the nimble hand luggage woman with no nice frocks and no skincare and a bad, joyless attitude for the whole weekend.
Worst-case scenario is that you pack everything you have ever owned and still have nothing to wear. This is also the most likely scenario. That and forgetting all your pants. Packing is rubbish. And unpacking is worse.