Plucky Survivors See Europe: Packing Up My Anxiety

The first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem, so I am standing up and stating, without shame, that I… suck at packing.

In order to understand why, we have to go back a few decades to relive some childhood trauma. See, I was what could generously be described as a full-figured child. Husky was the word that was bandied about on the labels of clothing I had to wear. Portly. Big boned. Zaftig. I created shade for smaller children. My parents considered subdividing my ass to build condos. I showed up on radar. You get the idea.

My weight went up and down throughout most of my teen and adult years until my esophagus went and got all pissy with me. Although I don’t recommend it, cancer is a very effective weight loss technique. Ever since then, I have struggled to maintain a decent weight.

And yet, there is one maxim that I have learned is truer than any other truth: once a fat girl, always a fat girl.

I guess the official term for it is “body dysmorphia,” but I’m Gen X and we were pretty much feral beasts who raised ourselves on afternoon television, high-fructose snacks, and playground equipment made out of sharp metal and rocks, so calling my distorted view of myself “dysmorphia” feels indulgent.

Whatever you call it, the way it manifests itself, often, is when I get dressed. If I’m going to be seen in public, I usually go through multiple outfits until I find something that doesn’t make me feel like Joseph Merrick. (look it up, Google is free). The thing I wore one day and felt fine about may look monstrous to me the next time I put it on and the thing that I hated and swore I’d never wear again may end up being the only thing that gets me out the door.

Luckily, I have a closet full of clothes that provide me with more options than I will reasonably ever use. Which is great when I’m at home, but what about when I travel?

This brings us back to packing and the level of sucking at it I exhibit every time I try to do it.

I go away for a weekend, and I pack as if I am going on safari. Seriously, I recently went to Atlanta for two nights and I took a full-size suitcase with four pairs of pants, three pairs of shorts, and at least a dozen shirts.

The idea of packing for a 2 ½ month road trip through Europe has practically put me into a stress-induced coma. I kept picturing myself standing in my closet screaming “but what if I need my Domino’s work shirt from 1985?!”

I had no idea how I was going to pull it off, but I have some remarkable news. I did a test packing run through judicious use of packing cubes and compression bags, I managed to get more clothes into my suitcase than I thought possible. 10 short sleeve button-ups, 10 polo/t-shirts, 3 long-sleeve warmer shirts, 2 dress shirts, 2 hoodies, 10 pairs of shorts, and 10 pairs of jeans/pants. The suitcase is heavy but not impossibly heavy. It’s doable.

A second smaller suitcase will have 2 pairs of shoes, about 2 weeks’ worth of socks and underwear, toiletries, travel gear (steamer, hangers, etc.), and whatever else I think of between now and then.

I’m also taking a backpack that will have my computer, travel docs, and other miscellaneous plus a collapsible duffel bag in which I can put the stuff I buy in Europe and carry it on the plane with me when I return.

I say all this now, but should you hear screaming, cursing, and wailing coming from the general direction of my condo the day before my trip, that’s me looking for room to add my Domino’s work shirt from 1985.