There is a version of packing that is practical, efficient, and entirely beside the point.
And then there is the way I pack.
I had opened the wardrobe an hour ago with every intention of being decisive. The bag sat open on the bed — patient, waiting, slightly intrigued and prepared to be judgmental. Destination decided and dates confirmed.
Beyond that, Darlings, I was operating on instinct and a very strong cup of something that was not helping me be any more rational.
I do not pack clothes. I have never packed clothes. I pack decisions. Present and more accurately, future decisions.
The black & gold bikini went in first, because it always does — it is the piece I reach for when I want to feel like the best version of a story I am still writing. It has been to several countries, countless beaches and a legion of simply remarkable pool parties. It has seen a sunrise I will not describe and a dinner I absolutely will, eventually, when I find the right page for it. We have an understanding, this piece and I. It does not judge. It simply shows up.
The abalone teal one-piece I held for a long moment before deciding yes. Some pieces are for the life you are living. Some are for the life you are stepping into. This one, I have decided, is both.
I thought about the bartender in the hotel bar two trips ago — the one with the precise pour and the unhurried way of listening, as if every order you placed was mildly fascinating. We had a conversation about ice. It became, rather unexpectedly, a conversation about patience. He made me something I hadn’t ordered and it was exactly right, and when I left I did not look back, which is its own kind of compliment. Of course, later our conversation continued. We circled around patience with him detailing exquisitely how ice can help. At least, that was, generally speaking, the shared theme.
The sheer cover-up went in next. Then the matching lingerie.
· · ·
I had been composing a text in my head for several days. The rewrites have been spectacular. Even I am curious what I will finally send.
Not the sous chef — I had replied to him, finally, in the right light, as promised. Three words of my own. I will not tell you what they were but I will tell you they were accurate.
This was a different text. A different register and tone. The kind of message you write, edit and rewrite not because you don’t know what to say but because you are deciding how much of the truth to deliver and in what order. A text can be either drizzled in chocolate or dipped in honey. The process is definitely salted.
Outside, the morning framed a man on the opposite pavement who caught my eye through the window for precisely the single second it took me to cross from the wardrobe to the bed. He was carrying coffee and tipped his head with the purposeful ease of someone who knew exactly where he was going yet acknowledging sincere appreciation for the view. He did not look back but then, there was no need. I must remember to close those shades…or at least consider it.
I found our exchange oddly encouraging as I continued packing for my adventure.
The sailor stripes went in. The lace I left out - not forgotten, simply held back. Some things should be chosen at the last moment. It keeps the potential for adventure honest.
· · ·
My wardrobe is not a collection. It is a cast of characters. Each piece was chosen with the deliberateness of someone who understands that what you put near your body is a statement about what you believe you deserve. I do not keep things I do not love. I do not wear things that do not serve the story I am currently living.
This trip, the story is, at least potentially, as follows: a woman who has had a very full few weeks is stepping into an elsewhere with good light, good company not yet confirmed, and a hunger for the kind of experience that does not require photographs to settle into the memory beautifully.
Adventure, I have found, is not a destination. It is a posture. You either arrive ready or you do not arrive at all.
I was ready.
The bag was almost full. Which always means leaving room or breath. Yes, my clothes, all aspects of my character, do breathe.
The text was almost written. I picked up my phone, read what I had drafted, and deleted the last line. Why justify rather than simply saying the thing?
I rewrote it. Shorter. Truer.
My thumb hovered.
And then I picked up one last thing from the wardrobe shelf - something I had not planned to bring, something I had not packed in three years, something that belongs to a version of me I had thought was finished with that particular category of occasion -
and I put it in the bag.
I did not let myself think about it too hard.
I pressed send.
