Packing for Situations That Will Never Happen.

But... Just In Case.

A friend of mine, Make Mine a Spritzer creator Juliet Russell, recently wrote a piece about her three days in San Francisco, what she packed, what she wore, and a light, very reasonable acknowledgment that she may have slightly overpacked.

Naturally, I felt seen.

So I did what any self-aware man would do.
I jumped into the comments to let her know I overpack too.

This may have surprised her.

And maybe other women too.

Apparently, men are supposed to throw two shirts in a bag, shrug, and let the universe handle the rest.

Juliet, to her credit, didn’t mock me.
She invited me to write about it.

Which is how we got here.

And I’d just like to say, for the record,
what I’m about to describe is not “slight overpacking.”

This is something else entirely.

It starts the moment I know I’m going somewhere that requires a suitcase.
Somewhere that requires planning and organization. Two skills I’ve spent a lifetime confidently avoiding.

As the departure date creeps closer, panic sets in.
Not a full-blown panic. More like a slow, methodical spiral.

I start to visualize what I’ll need.
Then what I might need.
Then what I’d regret not having if I suddenly became a more interesting person.

And that’s when the madness begins.

Because I’m not the typical guy.

You know the guy.
Four pairs of underwear. One pair of socks. Two hoodies.
Jeans? He’s wearing them.

I hate that guy.

Not because I’m judging him.
Because I envy him.

The freedom.
The “I’ll figure it out later” confidence.
The emotional stability.

Me?

I don’t pack for the trip I’m taking.
I pack for the trip that could happen if everything goes sideways and I’m forced to reinvent myself as a slightly more prepared version of me.

Three days in San Diego?
Great. I’ll need options.

Not outfit options.
Life options.

Because somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s a scenario where I’m invited to a last-minute rooftop dinner…
which turns into a beach bonfire…
which turns into me being asked, casually, to contribute something musical.

And that’s when everyone turns.

“Renny… you didn’t happen to bring a French horn, did you?”

And I don’t want to be the guy who says no.

I don’t actually own a French horn.
But if I did, there’s a version of me staring at it while I’m already late for the airport, wondering if I can wedge it between a pair of jeans and a green sweater I’ve never worn and still qualify it as a carry-on.

Because… you know.
I might need it.

That’s what my suitcase is full of.

Versions of me.
Sections.
Just-in-cases.

There’s the dress shirt I’ve never worn, but this might be the trip where I become “dress shirt guy.”
Shoes that require a personality I don’t currently possess.
A blazer for the version of me who makes better decisions and orders unpronounceable French entrees with confidence.

At some point, I’ll stop, hold something up, and ask myself,
“Do you really think you might wear this?”

And without hesitation,
“Not only do I think I might wear this…”

…pause…

“I know…I might wear this.”

Then there’s the fitness fantasy.

It’s 6:00 AM. I’m the first one in the hotel “gym,” which is really just a converted storage room with a mirror that could tell stories.
Two stationary bikes. One works.
Three sets of dumbbells that top out at “light inconvenience.”

I’ll pack resistance bands.
Running shoes.
Lifting gloves.

Because I have this quiet, delusional belief that I’ll wake up early and “get after it.”

None of this will happen.
But they travel anyway. Like a security blanket made of workout gear.

Then we have weather.

Weather gets its own department.

A light jacket for the three-degree drop.
Two backup hoodies. One sensible. One that makes me feel I look younger and vaguely hip.

(It doesn’t.)

And of course, the “What if it rains?” subsection.
This is gear for a city that hasn’t seen rain since 2004.
But you never know. I like to stay prepared for once-in-a-decade meteorological events.

Then there are shoes.

Shoes are where everything falls apart.

Because unlike shirts or hoodies, shoes take up actual, physical space.
Not “just in case” space.
Real estate.

Every pair feels like a commitment.

And yet, I’ll still stand there and think,
“Well, I obviously need options.”

Casual shoes.
Slightly nicer shoes.
Workout shoes for the version of me who’s definitely hitting the hotel gym.
And then one wildcard pair just in case I end up somewhere that requires blue suede and yellow laces.

At some point, I’m staring into the suitcase like I’m trying to solve a puzzle.

If I angle them this way…
stuff socks inside…
shift everything over two inches…

I can make this work.

I can’t make this work.

But they’re coming anyway.

Because nothing says “prepared for anything” like sacrificing half your suitcase
for things that may never even touch the ground.

I also have my backpack.
This is reserved for…

The book I won’t read.
A notepad for thoughts I won’t have.
And a pen that will absolutely not be used.

There’s also a small zipper pocket for a harmonica.
I know two songs.

But in my mind, there’s a scenario where I’m in a dimly lit bar and a folksy live band is playing and somehow I get asked to jump in.

And for a brief, shining moment…
those two songs are exactly what the night needs.

This has never happened.
But I remain available.

And finally, the emotional support items.

Hey don’t laugh. Outfit anxiety is real. (I wrote about it here)

This is where I pack the go-to shirt.
The one pair of jeans that fit just right.
And the black cap I pull low enough to suggest mystery, but not low enough to hide the fact that I packed 14 unnecessary items.

These will be the only things I wear the entire trip.

Everything else is just backup personalities.

By the time I zip the suitcase, I’m not packed for a trip.
I’m packed for every version of myself I’ve ever considered becoming.

And somehow,

I’ll still forget socks.