A Field Guide to Overpacking and Other Delusions

Packing cubes were supposed to simplify my life. Organize it. Free me from the unraveling chaos of pre-vacation panic. I’d seen them online, neatly stacked little compartments promising balance and sanity. But during my packing test run for a nine-night cruise, I discovered something unexpected: these cubes, while beautifully efficient, are not ideal for the shopaholic. It turns out that more compartments don’t encourage restraint; they invite possibilities.

I stood proudly by the suitcase; cubes stacked like optimistic little bricks. My husband wandered in, casually surveyed the scene, and delivered a line that deserves a needlepoint pillow:

“It doesn’t mean you can pack more clothes.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“No,” I said, grinning. “It means I can buy more clothes to bring back.”

He blinked. I blinked. Somewhere behind him, the closet whispered, “Beverly’s not wrong.”

So yes—twenty-four outfits, six pairs of shoes, and enough justifications to fill a TED Talk. Now, before you gasp, allow me to walk you through the math. I planned two outfits per day: one for excursions and one for dinner. That’s 18. Then six “just-in-case” looks, carefully curated for scenarios I couldn’t even articulate. A masquerade ball at sea? An emergency brunch with royalty? The logic was foggy at best, but my cube system offered no resistance.

Every outfit had a destiny. I envisioned candlelit dinners, sunset drinks on the open deck, and strolls around the cruise ship with my husband, where I radiated charm and put togetherness. Not the usual jeans-and-messy-bun version of myself, but vacation Beverly. She wears makeup, accessorizes, and glows.

And then Rome happened. Ten glorious, exhausting hours of sightseeing, cobblestones, and cultural ambition. By the time we returned to our cabin, my feet had staged a mutiny. The wedges mocked me from the corner. The dress I’d earmarked for dancing remained hanging in the closet, untouched. I wasn’t the vision I’d packed for. I was a woman in search of ibuprofen and silence.

Where do these delusions come from? Why do I still pack like I’m twenty-one with the stamina of a tour guide on espresso? Somewhere between optimism and a Pinterest board lives the version of myself who dresses for every possibility. Even if that possibility ends in blistered feet and “room service, please.”

I’ve realized I don’t just pack clothes, I pack hope. I hope that I’ll feel beautiful, present, and maybe even magnetic. I pack for the possibility. I wish for versions of myself that haven’t arrived yet, but might peek out when the lighting’s just right and the dress zips without struggle. Call it delusional, but at least I pack in style.