If ever there’s been a question, the fact that this feeling ranks on this list is ultimate proof that I am, in fact, my father’s son.
There was a time—back when we were younger and could actually stomach one another—when my family would go on vacation together. Truth be told, they were amazing (Big ups to Mom Dukes, the architect). However, there were always elements of them (frankly, elements of traveling in general, as I’ve figured out now that I’m older) that would inevitably drive my father fucking insane.
Leaving on time, leaving late, packing properly, fitting everything in to the car, making good time, making sure not to stop unless a urinary tract infection was imminent… These were the things that could set him off.
Now that I’m older and have been traveling on my own for a while, I’ve noticed I’ve inherited his joy for packing properly. Now, I would never be so brazen as to assert that I’m as good—or, even close to as good—as he is but the point is, I enjoy a job well done. When I was younger, I never understood what made him so happy about a well-packed suitcase… or, what my mom loved about it so much.
But now, even when I’m going somewhere for a weekend, it really makes me feel good. I think the key to it is this: there’s always more room. You think you’ve maximized every cubic inch, but you haven’t. You’ve forgotten about the compartment on the outside or the fact that you can just wear a sweatshirt you planned to pack or that socks can get rolled into the shoes.
What starts as a heap of crap you have slim hopes for making fit turns, in only a short time, into a neatly zipped up (sometimes reluctantly) suitcase with everything you’ll need.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling? When you’re trying to close your bag and the zipper gets caught on something inside and the metal teeth refuse to let go. Either the item or the bag is going to be ruined, you know it, I know it, the bag knows it. That’s the opposite.