Nov 25, 2021 3 min read

The worst part of any vacation or trip is the packing. It’s stressful enough to pack for a trip to the beach, where a swimsuit, some shorts and three shirts will do, but packing for a cruise requires more planning.

My daughter and her boyfriend are joining his family for a short cruise this weekend, a four-day jaunt that will require dress-up things for dinner, as well as the usual “beachy” garments. A week ago, I asked if she needed help buying some things for the trip and she said she had it all planned.

Late Tuesday night, as I was reading in bed, I heard a loud scraping sound outside the window. I knew Grace had arrived and assumed the sound was of her pulling the trash can down the driveway from the road.

“Nice kid,” I thought.

The next morning I woke to find the trash can had not been moved, and in her room I found what had been making that scraping sound.

It was her suitcase, packed and ready for the trip.

The suitcase was as tall as a trash can, and as wide. With the handle fully deployed, it reached my shoulder. With its tapestry fabric, it looked like a two-person ottoman.

No, a love seat.

Someday, climate change will have all of us driving teeny electric cars, and they will be dwarfed by this suitcase.

“Really, Grace,” I said. “Do you plan to be on that ship until you’re 30?”

“I need options,” she said.

“Think global warming,” I said. “That suitcase will burn jet fuel.”

I’ve always been fascinated with the “overnight bag” approach to vacations: just toss a bikini, a pair of sandals, and a scarf-that-can-be-worn-eight-ways-as-a-dress-or-jumpsuit into a carry on and off you go. I mentioned this to Grace and suggested she thin the herd a bit.

“Those cruise ship rooms are really small,” I said. “Your suitcase will be larger than your bed.”

When she and her brother were very young, we took them to a family resort. At dinner each night, I would be wearing the same sun dress with perhaps different earrings – my approach to packing light – and would look across the room to see one mom after another dressed as if they were at a wedding and had dressed in the huge walk-in closets at home.

Had they brought steamer trunks?

I brought out my own small wheeled suitcase, four of which would have fit inside her large bag.

“You’re not serious,” Grace said. “That won’t even hold my hair stuff.”

Her boyfriend had stayed out of things until, realizing he would probably be the one dragging The Ark through the airport, said “try downsizing.”

I reminded her that over packing is a rite of passage, and that only recently have I learned that unless you are Beyonce, a girl can get through four days quite attractively with only about eight pounds of clothing and two pairs of shoes.

Yesterday, we were up at 4:30 a.m. to drive to the airport. As I was warming up the car I looked in the rearview mirror to see the kids walking out of the house with their luggage. Grace was pulling my smaller suitcase.

In her other hand was a large quilted carry-on, so stuffed it looked like a cumulus cloud.

“Have everything?” I asked as she heaved the bag into the car.

“No, but it will have to do,” she said. She won’t wear half of it, but I didn’t say so.