November 6, 2002

Packing: A true exercise in futility

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor

      Packing for a weekend road trip these days is an exercise in futility - a cardiovascular workout involving wrestling suitcases and assorted baby paraphernalia into the trunk.
      Call it fortune cookie philosophy, but with major life changes comes additional luggage. Sometimes that baggage is emotional, more often it is Samsonite.
      For the first time as a father, I let down my child - by the time she is 13 years old I will have lost count of the number. Ironic as it sounds, last weekend I forgot to pack the Pack and Play. Those unfamiliar with this apparatus it is modern, politically correct term for a playpen. It is also where Ella sleeps when she is away from home.
      Admittedly, parenthood does come with excess baggage - diaper bags, car seats, strollers and exersaucers to name a few. Indeed it seems the smaller the human, the greater amount of gear to pack. Ella takes up relatively few cubic inches of backseat space, but the trunk is another matter. Her weekend wardrobe alone nearly bottoms out the car's shock absorbers.
      The reason you pack 15 outfits, 30 diapers and countless reams of baby wipes for a 48-hour period is simple - the proverbial "just in case."
      An inconceivable notion now, at one time I packed my belongings in a paper bag. Preparing for a road trip meant a pair of underwear you could turn inside out, sniff test passed T-shirts, anti b.o. juice and a shaver. If space permitted, I would toss in a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.
      Chalk it up to a prehistoric caveman predisposition, but men pride themselves on traveling light. In the Cro-Magnon recess of our minds, we honestly think garment bags might hamper our ability to outrun a saber-toothed tiger. It could also be that we fear being weighted down with the heavy-laden suitcase of responsibility.
      Throughout my early twenties, I traveled with only a duffel bag in tow. The toughest part about carting off my worldly possessions to college was squeezing the stereo system into the backseat of my 1974 Buick Regal. After all, dorm life wouldn't be complete without speakers cranked up to eleven in the spirit of "Spinal Tap."
      These days, however, I carry the grownup burdens of mortgage payments, daycare and the fact that I still have Led Zeppelin on LP vinyl. Heavy stuff you can't stuff into a duffel bag. Unless of course you want the zipper to look like a Bumble gone 15 rounds with Hermey the dentist.
      My greatest grownup fear is that the answer to our cargo room crunch is the dreaded M word: minivan. When it comes to be a new father, I have no qualms about changing disgusting dirty diapers, but contemplating sliding doors and seating for eight is another matter. Just hearing the words "removable third seat" makes my skin crawl.
      Thankfully, I've been blessed with superhuman spatial skills. Somehow I can get a square peg into a round hole. Although I was a dismal failure in geometry class, I've perfected the brute force method of packing. I can condense a person's life into a handful of banana boxes. This abnormal ability enables me to keep cramming our subcompact car when it should have imploded into a midsize sedan months ago.
      Unfortunately, I've only just begun my wrestling match of wills with packing predicaments.
      Soon Ella will insist on bringing along 20 stuffed animals, 12 coloring books, two snacks and a car seat for her imaginary friend Mr. Peabody on a simple run to the grocery store. Shortly thereafter it will be flesh and bone friends and their Sesame Street sleep over backpacks, teens and their excess angst baggage, then finally college moving day - if I can still move a muscle after all that exercise in futility.
      Perhaps when I reach the off ramp of retirement, I'll take my own weekend road trip. I'll pack reversible underwear, stink-free T-shirts and a toothbrush if space permits, throw my paper bag belongings into the trunk of a Lamborghini, and hit the highway without a care - or a Samsonite.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com