Packing with Your Husband

Chris and I are leaving today to head back to Florida for the Easter weekend.  This involves a three-hour flight.  On an airplane.  Where swelling is common in normal people.  If you remember, I flew to Atlanta during my second trimester and my feet paid a horrible price even then.

This was in February.  I can’t wait to see what happens now that I’m two months further along.  Neither can my doctor.  She said that medically, I would probably be fine but that I was really going to hurt.  And then she asked me to take pictures of it so she could point and laugh.  She’s a fun lady.

Now, I usually don’t go against doctor’s orders, but this weekend is special.  My mom and mother-in-law are throwing me a big baby shower and there are lots of people coming into town for it.  I’m the Guest of Honor.  People will be throwing gifts at me.  I bought a cute hot pink dress.  There’s going to be cake.  I cannot back out now.

So, last night I laid in my bed with my feet up in preparation for our Flight From Hell while Chris packed his suitcase.  I was there only because I was not physically capable of being anywhere else.  I try not to be around when Chris packs his suitcase.  Its better for our marriage that way.  We pack completely differently.  Me?  I go through each day and each event in my head and lay out my outfit, including shoes, jewelry, accessories – everything.  Otherwise, I forget something crucial.  Like socks.  I never remember socks.  But if I lay them out with my shoes and corresponding outfit, then I’m more likely to pack them.  Its an elaborate system, really.  Works like a charm.

Chris, on the other hand, opens a suitcase and throws whatever he can get his hands on into it.  Normally, this “method” (and I use that term loosely) works fine because vacations are all about sitting around eating and going to the beach, and it doesn’t really matter what you’re wearing.  But this time our trip has some specific objectives.

Objective #1:  Chris is playing golf all day on Saturday with the men in my family.  This requires specific clothing.  And shoes.  And golf clubs.  Generally speaking from a Southern perspective, any kind of outing where sporting equipment is involved yields the need for at least some level of planning in your wardrobe.

Objective #2: We are doing family pictures on the beach on Saturday morning at (get this) SUNRISE.  The photographer is meeting us at some ridiculous hour like 4:30 AM.  I’ll be lucky if I can have Chris on the beach sober and awake, much less in the appropriate clothing.  Planning ahead for this is crucial.

Objective #3:  Easter Sunday we will be going to church and then to two different sides of the family for lunch.  This also requires specific clothing, as flip flops and Hawaiian shirts aren’t totally appropriate for Easter Sunday church.  At least not if you are married to me.

So, with these events comes the need for a certain amount of planning in packing.  This royally messed with Chris’ “method.”  I’d be laying there, trying to watch The Office and Parks and Recreation (kind of disappointing, really…I was bummed), and Chris would hold up a shirt and a pair of pants and ask if they matched.  I’d say no.  He’d get pissed.  It was a real fun game.  And I didn’t understand him.  Why ask me if you don’t want my opinion?  If you’re just going to complain and moan, then why not just pack whatever you want and be done with it?  But Chris felt like he really needed my input, even if it was just to disagree with me.

The outfit that was the hardest to pack was the one for the family beach pictures.  The photographer suggested we go traditional with white tops and khaki bottoms.  Sounds easy, right?  Not for Chris.  Because Chris, apparently, doesn’t know what the hell khaki is.  I don’t understand this at all.  Half the walls in our house are khaki.  I’m the Queen of Khaki.  And yet, Chris insisted that any old shade of brown qualified as khaki.  I won’t go into what kind of argument we got into over this issue.  But let’s just say he has a pair of approrpriately khaki pants packed in his suitcase as I write this.

I won.  And that’s all that really matters in the end.

I would probably enjoy my vacations more if I didn’t have to go through packing with my husband.  If I didn’t have to justify why swimming trunks were not appropriate clothing for the golf course just because they are plaid.  If I didn’t have to insist that tennis shoes were not acceptable to wear to church just because they are brown.  If I didn’t have to strangle Chris with a pair of khaki pants in an effort to get my point across.  All of these things would start my vacations out much more happily.

Although, in the end, my feet are going to be so big no one will even notice what we are wearing because they won’t be able to tear their eyes away.  Guess I should probably shave my legs for that.