I hate to be a downer here, but there is one thing that sort of, well, ruined the conference for me . . . .
It’s not that I don’t appreciate my husband calling me from the store and telling me about this beautiful red Liz Clairborne suitcase. I figured “red” would match my lady lit genre, and then there’s always the added plus of finding it on the baggage rack. (Of course the bright green tag that says “Don’t make
me chase you” also sticks out). I appreciate that he has bothered to get this for me, I really do. But when he brings it home, I’m not prepared for what I see. In fact, I’m surprised he was able to cart it home without a semi.
Yes, it’s that big. Think Titanic.
So, while Colleen, Denise and Kristin all tote around their dainty little bags that appear no bigger than an evening clutch, I come lugging in this monster bag that is sure to promise me a hernia before the trip’s over. In fact, I could have packed away the entire conference sound system and no one would have been the wiser.
The theme song for the Beverly Hillbillies taunts me through the airport as I heave this luggage through gates and passageways (don’t even ask me about bathroom stalls). The good news is I have biceps that could rival Popeye.
I won’t go into our trip with Colleen’s nephew back to the airport and how they could barely stuff my bag in their trunk. We could have plunked it on the car roof, but figured by the time we arrived at the airport, we would have been two feet tall.
All that to say, I will learn how to pack lighter next year if it kills me. Or maybe I’ll just climb into the luggage and have my husband push me around. Hey, throw in a box of chocolates, and I’m good to go.