I absolutely hate packing. Something about it seems so final. You can spend the weeks before a trip talking of what you're going to do-all the cute, fun, romantic, whimsical things that make the trip (and the leaving) seem so exciting, almost magical. But once you put everything into a suitcase that's it. That's your life for the next few weeks-just me and this big blue bag of stuff. Why do I have so many clothes?! I'm really not sure I'm ready or equipped for this summer. Too many uncertainties, too many questions. But, then again, these are the same doubts I have almost every time I pack. Different situations, different bags, different clothes but the same possibilities, the same promise of adventure and change. Over the years I've packed for long weekends at the beach, fall breaks in the mountains, debate trips across America, funerals of dearly loved friends and family, summers that I'll never forget, and countless adventures that I couldn't even begin to list and recall.
In each suitcase there are memories, people who waltzed in and out of my life yet left something behind-something that still shapes me today, there are laughter and tears, regrets and never forgets all neatly zipped up and below 40 lbs to comply with the airways travel standards. You'd be surprised how much promise, hope, and fear can fit into 40 lbs And yet, here I am again, wondering why I have so many clothes, wondering what could lie ahead, wondering what I'm leaving behind, and wondering if it's worth it. But it is far too late to change my mind now, so I suppose the only thing to do is zip up my 40 lbs of possibilities and run after every adventure the summer may hold.
