I’ve come to the conclusion after a long, agonizing afternoon staring into my closet, that I’m an idiot.
I leave Tuesday for a conference in San Francisco. I’m sick of Denver so I decided to be spontaneous and stay a few extra days. Take some pictures, drink some coffee, see some sights, hang out with a friend, etc. But we’ll get to my spontaneity in a second.
So, roughly six days. That’s a long time to be away from home. Coupled with the fact that I’m a chronic overpacker, this is starting to stress me out. I don’t want to take my big oaf of a suitcase because I really don’t need all that room. But I can’t take my small suitcase because it’s just not big enough. But apparently suitcases just come in those two sizes–ginormous and standard carry-on.
I looked all weekend for something somewhere in the middle and I’m convinced it doesn’t exist. Sure, some of those smaller suitcases look like they’re bigger than the standard carry-on, but it’s a lie. Same cubic interior space. Just a lot of extra padding on the outside and maybe an extra zipper. Like I’m going to cram my personal items in an outside pocket anyway.
So I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m going to have to A. take my big suitcase and B. not fill it with 83 shirts just because I have the room to do so. Yeah. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m taking the big suitcase, until I start picturing myself wandering in downtown SF with the huge box on wheels, my laptop and my purse in tow. The coolest 83 shirts in the world can’t help a person with that degree of idiocy going on.
Which brings us to my spontaneity. I really haven’t planned the last two and a half/three days of my trip. I’m sort of leaving it up to chance, playing it by ear, etc. Which is stupid when you consider that I like to exercise a little bit of control over my day-to-day activities. When I told J I wanted to move out last April, the anxiety of not having another apartment lined up almost gave me a pulmonary edema. My good friend M and I were just talking about this the other day.
“When you called and said you needed a place to stay, it felt really good,” she said.
“I knew it was really hard for you to do.”
I decided to spare her the details of the 15 minutes leading up to the phone call: me sitting on the bathroom floor, building the emotional fortitude to tell someone I needed assistance.
The control thing is stupid. I work myself up over absolutely nothing. Which is why said spontaneity is good for me. So long as I don’t end up rolling my suitcase into the ghetto and getting myself chopped into itty bitty pieces. That is not the kind of vacation I’m looking to get into.
But now we’re hitting on paranoia, and that’s just not something I have time to delve into. The suitcase strategery has already consumed more of my life than I’d like to admit.
I should really find some Xanex and call this shit a day.