Maybe not so much a dilemma as an anxiety-provoking experience for a longstanding Type A over-thinker who just wants to strike the right balance between ‘I’m going to freeze to death’ and ‘what the hell were you thinking?’.
My first ever trip overseas was a classic case of the latter. My bulging backpack included an emergency poncho, an umbrella, a PORTABLE FUCKING CLOTHESLINE and a Glad Bag stuffed full of laundry detergent powder around Europe. I carried all of this and more around with me for a month. That freaking poncho must have been the most well-travelled, never-used emergency poncho in existence. The portable clothesline lay dormant in my backpack throughout the trip before spending about 7 quality years at the back of my laundry cupboard. I only wish I could go back and tell my younger self: Do NOT drink the Lonely Planet Kool Aid.
10 years later I like to think I’m far more minimalist in my approach, however my Achilles heel (so to speak) is shoes. Not because I love them (I lack the shoe-obsession gene), but because I have incredibly poor judgement when it comes to what is going to be appropriate on any given day. This cluelessness is exacerbated when I have only an abstract idea of what the hell we’re going to be doing at any given point.
Thus last night there were 7 pairs of shoes in my suitcase. Technically I think you could round it down to 6 given that two pairs were flimsy ballet flats that are little more than plastic socks. Still, I knew it was too many. This was confirmed when I told Brendan and he laughed uproariously before shaking his head and rolling over to go to sleep. So I removed my ‘spare’ pair of runners (packed in case rain waterlogged the first pair), and decided that my decidedly selective approach to clothes justified the remaining shoes.
Regardless, the choice is now out of my hands as we’re at the airport and boarding in an hour or so. The luggage has been checked and we’re busy smashing some pre-flight Bloody Marys. Which WordPress spellcheck wants to change to ‘Bloody Marts’. What the hell is a Bloody Mart??