I’m incapable of “packing light”

People talk about ~traveling light~ like it’s some sort of moral high ground.

And I was raised Catholic, so I get it: anything remotely self-indulgent or sorta-self-indulgent-adjacent-looking is viscerally bad and wrong. If my lizard brain can’t tell the difference between carrying a lot of stuff and buying a lot of stuff, carrying a lot of stuff is clearly just as shameful. It’s an exhibition of all the unnecessary comforts I clearly can’t get away from for just one week (or three).

Never mind that all the stuff I’m carrying is stuff I already own, and never mind that the standard advice for so-called lighter travelers is indeed to buy your way out of emergencies. And never mind that my checked suitcase will never take up two persons worth of overhead bin space (thank you very much); it’s all about the optics.

Anyhow.

I’m not jealous. Or bitter.

Okay, I’m definitely both.

Because, with the exception of my partner (a mystical being somehow incapable of thermal discomfort in any environment and also somehow incapable of producing sweat), those trendy light travelers with their Allbirds and Away bags are kidding themselves, right? That, or they also don’t sweat. Or take medication. Or ever get rained on, somehow. Or menstruate. Or care about getting rained on. Or perceive wet socks.

Yeah, I don’t understand, either.

So here’s what I’m proudly packing:

Actual crampons. Typically, this digital dork is going between Denver and Boston for three weeks at a time, sometimes in February. As we all know, Denver and Boston (the latter, especially) are absolutely wonderful places to be in February. I’ve got no coordination, and I’ve gotta traverse those sidewalks somehow.

Electric mittens. See above. And good news: these only take up about half the space of a box of disposable hand warmers! Because did you know you can get congenital venous insufficiency in your arms as well as your legs? I sure didn’t! And boy, are my hands turning fun colors this season. It’s like the Reynaud phenomenon’s weird cousin, with zero dexterity under 50 Fahrenheit.

The boots. If it’s indeed February, we can wear these on the plane, which means they don’t count! But they also double as rain boots, which I never need in Boston but like to pack anyway, just because.

A plastic container with a pastry in it. At exactly 22:42 each night (or maybe 23:42, if it’s not a work night), we do The Overnight Oats (formerly, The Pastry) on account of my cholesterol. However, you can’t get overnight oats ready in time if you just flew in and don’t have an actual night between touchdown and Oat Time. So we make up for it with a little apple crumb cake on the way out, just like old times.

Seventeen shirts. That’s five moisture-wickers to sleep in, five regular t-shirts, and at least 7 long- or semi-long-sleeved things to cover those fickle September and April evenings that also warrant the full week’s set of thermal underlayers at least 65% of the the time. Because what if someone else is using the wash? Or what if someone else is using all twenty machines at the laundromat, all at once, every single time I stop by? We just can’t risk it.

Five pairs of pants. Just five. Good news: my legs don’t have armpits.

That one checkered button-down. Because that one tapas spot my old friends want to visit is “smart casual” or whatever, and I’ve gotta compensate for the winter boots somehow. None of the other 17 shirts have buttons or a collar.

Twelve pairs of socks. People say you can wear these more than once between washes. People are wrong.

Twelve pairs of boxers. Plus some little tight things if my skinny jeans come along. If people say you can wear boxers more than once between washes, I have no words…

A tasteful miniature backpack. The enormous waterproof rolltop that’s usually shoved under the seat in front of me won’t look good at the tapas bar. It’ll probably still rain that night, and I’ll probably die, but at least I can fit half my raincoat in it.

A down puffer jacket. 12 months of the year. You just never know.

Good headphones. Though they usually never see the light of day, only the Good Headphones will do on a plane.

Just okay headphones. We’re sure as hell not exposing the Good Headphones to anything other than the inside of my office or the inside of a fuselage.

A medium-sized stuffed leopard. I found it perched on a post in 2023. I waited exactly three days for someone else to claim it, and now I can’t sleep without it. In public, I pretend it’s a neck pillow, because I am 33.

An adjustable laptop stand. That, or it’s awkwardly stacking the host’s side table atop a coffee table and hoping we don’t scuff anything. If it’s even the right height.

Two separate laptops. The 16 inch Mac Pro is neat. But it’s also lonely, and my digital hobbies are against company policy.

That giant laundry bag my grandma made me. No justification needed.

At least eight plastic bags. Two for each winter boot, one for each indoor slide-on sandal (did I mention those?), two more in case the other ones break.

A roll of packaging tape. Inevitably, I’ll want to flat-rate the full-sized laundry detergent and seaworthy dry food store I purchased on this trip back to my regular house.

Eight microfiber cloths. A greasy keyboard isn’t acceptable in any part of the world.

A rain coat. It’s lighter than an umbrella. Therefore I am actually packing light.

Rain pants. Are you actually okay with the physical sensation of wet jeans, or have you always just pretended you are? Do you have a drying mechanism emanating from your skin that I don’t know about? I seriously need to understand this.

Full-sized bottles of every toiletry. Still unopened from the last four trips in which I never actually needed to take them out.

Eight more plastic bags. To prevent the full-sized bottles of every toiletry from leaking.

A swimsuit I’ve never worn before. I’m waiting for the right moment. It could be in February.