The challenge: Packing clothing appropriate for New Jersey in winter, Ohio and Colorado in spring, then California in early summer. Make sure it all travels well, won’t wrinkle much, and doesn’t require washing after one wear. Oh, and it’s gonna need to fit in one suitcase. And they all need to be components that’ll make cute outfits. That last edict is a self-imposed regulation, but should be considered just as important.
I’m the sort of person who brings three changes of clothes for one night of dogsitting for friends in Smyrna, on account of you just never know what the night will bring. An unexpected spill, temperature change, or dinner invite would require a wardrobe adjustment, and I wanna be prepared. For the last few weeks, I’ve been working at the Center for Puppetry Arts a few hours a day, helping seat groups of school children for matinee shows. I have come to love my morning ritual of standing in front of the armoire in my underpants with a cup of coffee in hand, deciding what to wear that day. It’s a process that requires at least half an hour of failed combos, but when I find it, it’s such a happy moment.
Somehow I have to figure out how to condense that experience into one suitcase for the next four months, while I’m back on the road with the tour of my play. And it’s not going well. I read somewhere that Albert Einstein had a wardrobe of nothing but white Oxford shirts and khakis, so he never had to waste thought on what he was going to wear on any given occasion. I have no idea if that’s true- 90% of my knowledge base is from Wikipedia and Access Hollywood- but there’s logic to the notion. I could just wear variations on the same ensemble from city to city, and the only people who’d be any the wiser would be my co-workers. It’d be fitting, since I wear the same costumes every night and all the hotel rooms eventually start to look alike.
I’m the sort of person who brings three changes of clothes for one night of dogsitting for friends in Smyrna, on account of you just never know what the night will bring. An unexpected spill, temperature change, or dinner invite would require a wardrobe adjustment, and I wanna be prepared. For the last few weeks, I’ve been working at the Center for Puppetry Arts a few hours a day, helping seat groups of school children for matinee shows. I have come to love my morning ritual of standing in front of the armoire in my underpants with a cup of coffee in hand, deciding what to wear that day. It’s a process that requires at least half an hour of failed combos, but when I find it, it’s such a happy moment.
Somehow I have to figure out how to condense that experience into one suitcase for the next four months, while I’m back on the road with the tour of my play. And it’s not going well. I read somewhere that Albert Einstein had a wardrobe of nothing but white Oxford shirts and khakis, so he never had to waste thought on what he was going to wear on any given occasion. I have no idea if that’s true- 90% of my knowledge base is from Wikipedia and Access Hollywood- but there’s logic to the notion. I could just wear variations on the same ensemble from city to city, and the only people who’d be any the wiser would be my co-workers. It’d be fitting, since I wear the same costumes every night and all the hotel rooms eventually start to look alike.
It’d be like one day on continuous loop, which for some reason sounds like the most depressing thing I can possibly imagine.
I think that’s why I’m placing such importance on the contents of this suitcase: It’s the one tie to home I’ll have as I go from city to city. Every sweater, every t-shirt, every pair of socks has a different memory attached to it, and I crave that connection with my home life. As the clock winds down on my month-long break, I keep questioning whether I spent my time properly. I meant to put crown molding up in the bedroom, visit my sister, finish my play… most important, I’d planned on filling the last thirty days with beautiful, romantic memories with my fiancé to reflect upon while I’m gone, which could get us through the harder nights in the months ahead. But I don’t know if I pulled that off. Most of the time, we were just back in our old routine- forgetting to take out the trash, eating pizza and watching Lost, complaining about work. Granted, those are exactly the things I’ll miss, but I wish I’d done something bigger.
So I take out the trash.
While I’m outside, I note the tulip bed by the front door, planted by the previous owner. She had talked us through how to cut them down and prep the soil every winter, so they’d return healthy and happy later. We didn’t do that. Leaves and trash piled up, giving the impression that we’re greeting visitors with our compost heap. I consider this for a moment, then go inside and Google “Tulips.” Quick as a flash, I’m outside again in my grubbies with a rake, shovel, and trowel. For the next two hours, I rebuild the flower bed, and uncover the little eager sprouts under the mulch.
In a few months, while I’m a thousand miles away, my fiancé will come home and (hopefully) find tulips in full bloom. It’ll be like I gave him flowers. Speaking as someone who struggles with being romantic, I’m pretty proud of the notion. Plus, it’s somehow fitting that when I finally figure out a grand gesture, I won’t be here to see it. But you’ve got to switch your thinking and your methods while you’re away from your own life. That concept should probably apply to my wardrobe as well. So I go back inside with renewed determination to tackle that suitcase. I don’t really need twelve sweaters.
I think that’s why I’m placing such importance on the contents of this suitcase: It’s the one tie to home I’ll have as I go from city to city. Every sweater, every t-shirt, every pair of socks has a different memory attached to it, and I crave that connection with my home life. As the clock winds down on my month-long break, I keep questioning whether I spent my time properly. I meant to put crown molding up in the bedroom, visit my sister, finish my play… most important, I’d planned on filling the last thirty days with beautiful, romantic memories with my fiancé to reflect upon while I’m gone, which could get us through the harder nights in the months ahead. But I don’t know if I pulled that off. Most of the time, we were just back in our old routine- forgetting to take out the trash, eating pizza and watching Lost, complaining about work. Granted, those are exactly the things I’ll miss, but I wish I’d done something bigger.
So I take out the trash.
While I’m outside, I note the tulip bed by the front door, planted by the previous owner. She had talked us through how to cut them down and prep the soil every winter, so they’d return healthy and happy later. We didn’t do that. Leaves and trash piled up, giving the impression that we’re greeting visitors with our compost heap. I consider this for a moment, then go inside and Google “Tulips.” Quick as a flash, I’m outside again in my grubbies with a rake, shovel, and trowel. For the next two hours, I rebuild the flower bed, and uncover the little eager sprouts under the mulch.
In a few months, while I’m a thousand miles away, my fiancé will come home and (hopefully) find tulips in full bloom. It’ll be like I gave him flowers. Speaking as someone who struggles with being romantic, I’m pretty proud of the notion. Plus, it’s somehow fitting that when I finally figure out a grand gesture, I won’t be here to see it. But you’ve got to switch your thinking and your methods while you’re away from your own life. That concept should probably apply to my wardrobe as well. So I go back inside with renewed determination to tackle that suitcase. I don’t really need twelve sweaters.
Maybe nine, at most.
