CHAPTER SEVEN: ARE YOU GOING SOMEWHERE?

Entering into a contractual agreement with oneself is a unique experience. You are the lessor as well as the lessee. All decisions need to be conferred with yours truly only. There are no right or wrong answers to any question and everything is approved or denied by you.

One of the things that concerned my girl friends, (who actually believed they had a voice in this decision) was my luggage. “Good grief woman,” they’d agonize, “how in the world will you ever be able to pack for two months away from home? You’ll need one huge suitcase for shoes alone, another for makeup and hair care, and at least one more for clothes. And because the seasons will be changing while you’re there, you’ll need to double everything. Holy crap, do airports provide complimentary pack mules these days?”

Hhhmmmmm…..I suppose looking at it from their perspective, this ‘could’ potentially present a problem. A problem for which I had no immediate answer. What I did have though, was the basic knowledge that most people, (women in particular) have become totally blasé about entering their closets or chest of drawers and finding a prodigious surplus of clothes at their disposal. They rifle through hangers and drawers, deciding and undeciding for hours because there is so much to decide from. Now, I admit that I am just as guilty of this and have also done what every woman over forty is accused of doing: I have spread out… not so much in girth, but in terms of monopolizing space. I have undies and nighties, sweaters and pants, dresses and skirts, sweats and shorts, tee’s and blouses, shoes, boots and coats. I have all these things and more, not only in my own bedroom closet, but in my children’s and the hall closet as well. Also being like most other women, I buy and seldom discard. New things simply get piled on top of old. Pants double up on bars, and tank tops might room four or more per hanger. Yep, I thought, they may be right..this could indeed present a challenge.

When it came time to pack, I was determined not to be buffaloed by this issue. I went into my bedroom closet, turned on the light, stepped back and peered at the mammoth cavern through the slits in my eyes. Staring intently at the gargantuan array of apparel, I performed what my father had coined as ‘the squint test.’ He used this technique to appraise the lighting on our Christmas tree. The dark spots created by squinting, pointed out the absence of lights so that he knew where adjustments needed to be made. In this instance, the scheme worked in reverse and the answer glowed like teeth under a black light. The stand-outs when I squinted, were my ‘favorites.’ You know, the ones you gravitate to over and over. The Items that you would almost certainly run an entire otherwise-empty load of laundry for if they were not clean. What my eyes latched onto were my comfort clothes.

I heard the familiar internal voice that had been flawlessly guiding me thus far, say… “Pick the few that you love. Pick the ones that make you happy when you wear them.” As a famous postal service employee once stated when referring to the use of paper towels, “Why take two when one will do?” This catchphrase along with my own slogan of, “If you can’t carry it, you don’t need it,” began to play nicely together in my head. So, I reassessed the bevy before me and decided that like the special people I invited to France, I would invite only the loved ones from my closet and drawers.

I began in the underwear drawer. I possess over 85 pairs of lacy underpants, from silky boxers to satiny thongs in every color of the rainbow. I counted them once when I was cleaning out the compartment, determined to downsize and throw most away. Since of course, that never happened, I found myself today, still sifting through 85 pair when I concluded… Just four. Four pairs of knickers should be quite sufficient since I’d have a washer and dryer at my disposal. Four pair that would cuddle my buns and snuggle my cheeks. And because they were so itsy-bitsy, they gobbled up a mere two square inches of luggage space.

Once in France, I would have daily access to four sandy beaches, so perusing my swimwear came next. I have a fondness for swim suits and own nine with varying degrees of coverage. Most of those degrees are sparse, but I do own two conservative ‘mom’ suits from my visit to San Diego to see my son. I bought those not because he is a prude, but seriously, what man over 20, wants to see his mother half naked? The other seven suits are teeny-weenie bikinis. I wear them not because I look so incredibly smashing, but because I love the sun. I want the warmth of sunbeams to kiss every exposed patch of skin, so I pretty much expose it all. And, okay, I’ll admit to another vanity. I’m besotted by tan lines and a tawny complexion, so the tinier the suit, the better. ‘One’ I surmised, I will only take one which will consume no space at all.

The entire suitcase full of shoes (that my friends deemed requisite), was downsized to a pouch containing sneakers. I would wear a pair of sandals and pack running shoes. I crammed two pairs of socks down the throat of each shoe and nestled them snugly in the corner of the bag.

My most serious wardrobe consideration however, had to do with the fact that I saw, in my mind’s eye, an insouciant woman, sashaying up and down, to and fro, back and forth, from pillar to post, in flowing, saucy, gossameer skirts. That woman was me. I adore the freedom of a long, ribbony skirt. There are no belts, buttons or zippers to bind you up. Skirts drift and bounce and get tossed every which way, depending on the temperament of the breeze or the cadence of a lively band. Skirts have a carefree, winsomeness that encapsulated the essence of who I wanted to be in France. So I packed more than one, several as a matter of fact. Skirts roll up in a ball requiring minimal space—and could be worn, with or without knickers!

I was keenly aware of and reveling in the fact that as a stranger in paradise, there would be no one to judge or analyze me. No one to ask, “Didn’t you just wear that yesterday?” or waggle their finger like soft-serve ice cream and declare, “Those colors are screaming to be separated!” There was going to be no living soul to criticize me or give a tinkers damn whether I wore the same thing over and over or not! Throwing in a few t-shirts, camisoles, a pair of jeans and a tube of Bert’s Bees, my packing was done.

I stepped back, dusted the decision off my hands and patted my own back. I had wrestled and tamed the last lion on my list. The overrated need for a banquet of clothes and infinite dressing options had been quelled. What I had in front of me was one very manageable travel bag with a few things set aside for carry-on. There would be no need for a team of  pack mules, nor would I require the services of a valet or porter. I would manage myself and I would do it with panache. Less would be better than more and four would be quite sufficient. Cuz really, what kind of ninny spending nine weeks in nirvana could possibly require more than four pairs of knickers?