Just The Backpack

There's something special about impromptu trips.

"Meet us at the ferry, we'll take the head count there," reminds Sara before waving goodbye.

"What, no suitcases?"

She turns back to reply,"Just your backpack, and ditch the baggage."

Heavy packing and heavy lifting, I'll be doing none of that. Feels liberating. It will be just us friends after a long time, and a backpack is all I need to make it happen.

I find myself getting busy, a little too busy. Why am I tackling all this work I really don’t have to get to just yet? The trip is only tomorrow. Anyway, it should be quick. I’m not packing suitcases. I even manage to finish the last chapter of the book!

This One-Backpack approach, I like it. I like it very much. Life must be simple. Less is more.

Now, where are clean clothes when I need them? I pick up the dirty load and drop it in the machine that already has a bunch of soiled clothes.

As it runs, I see my coat and favorite jeans hanging. I quickly gather them, press pause, and drop the items. There are things one just can't do without.

While the washer does its job, I prop my feet up to relish a "me-moment." I pull out the gaudy pink donut obscenely covered with rainbow sprinkles and relish the hedonism of it all.

A thoughtful person, that's who I am. At this moment my friend's stuck in a commitment. She had to back out on this trip she really wanted to take. I'll fill in all the details she'll possibly want to hear.

Emma and I get chatty, and I forget all about the laundry. I slowly pry a confession out of her.

"Of course, I am a bit envious."

Wait till she hears about the accommodation!

"The setting is a barn in a huge farm. It's equipped now with most modern amenities in the wilderness. The views are spectacular."

A large pear tree frames the window in the picture. It's a thing of beauty with infinite blossoms.

I text her the picture of the place. Instantly, I get the read receipt. "Aha," I silently exclaim. Girlfriend does want to know more!

"Hmmm, I'll look at the text tomorrow."

That bland response is a sure-cover for FOMO. I know her too well. Yet, excitement oozes out of me like lava from a volcano that cannot stop erupting.

"We plan to explore several hiking trails, attend a glass -blowing workshop and may even try out felting techniques with wool harvested from local sheep."

The lengthy conversation includes descriptions of food and drink, socialization, and interesting activities.

"Cheese-making, I'm going to try my hand at sheep's cheese," I gush.

"Oh, sheep's cheese," remarks my vegan friend.

I don't immediately notice the flat response for I'm caught up in spilling all over. I manage to squeeze in moonlight walks we plan to take.

By now it's hard to ignore her silence. It feels like I am skating on a frozen pond. I realize my tactlessness, and before the ice cracks under my feet, I literally break it with an awkward, "We will miss you."

"Thanks, but it's bedtime."

Somewhat shamefaced, I realize this is a full sentence from her between series of monologues. We end the call with a goodnight.

I look at the time, and it's way past midnight. Only after I climb the bed I realize there's a wet load in the washer. Feeling sleepy, I decide to throw them in the dryer later. All that talk is tiring, so I use the procrastinator's original, "Tomorrow!"

The mind is still stimulated and alert, but a girl must get her rest. I turn notifications off on phone, slide button to silent mode, and take deep breaths to relax.

Boy, am I glad not to be packing suitcases!

Early in the morning, the alarm rings making me jump with excitement. Then, remembering the light packing, I dig into the covers after hitting the snooze button.

The alarm finally gives up the ON-OFF battle with me.

With a sudden rush, I remember clothes need to be dried. Lucky it's just the backpack; there's still time. I jump out of bed and race to the washer.

My hand encounters a stubborn, bunched-up load stewing in water. The unbalanced load button blinks in red. The neck scarf is twisted with the long stole, and the shawl I put in has joined this jumble. In hindsight,did I really need this many? Nesting within these are the smaller items. The whole thing looks like one giant hippopotamus stuck in a pool of water. I untangle, wring by hand, and make a watery mess. The clothes are still drippy, but the dryer will have to run longer. I mop up the just-created wet puddle.

After what seems an interminable time, I have clean but slightly damp clothes.

The backpack does not fit all my stuff. This is a good thing, I can get done quicker.

First, I must sift and cull through what I need.

I try to downsize and minimize, but parting is such sweet sorrow.

As I wrest with this challenge, I find myself stressing. I watch a calm and collected TV personality showing me how to roll using a special method.

Gee, one can actually learn from the idiot box!

“Smoothen first! Then, make rectangles, and finally, roll,” suggests the reassuring voice in the airwaves.

Why, even a baby can do that! I roll tightly, nest clothing, secure tucking, and jettison things that do not spark joy. The sublime combed cotton pajama suit goes beyond joy and so do the grandma undies. These are keepers. All I throw out are whispers of lace and briefest lingerie. And I wonder why I cannot gain space.

Although an extra pair of pretty shoes would be welcome, I must swap them for clunky hiking boots.

Too many things spark my joy, and it's hard to let go.

On the subject of sparks, what about chargers and stuff, what about my laptop and extremely smart devices? I need some link to civilization after all.

Snacks? Purses? Personal items? Check, check, check. I put things in to take them out.

Lucky I don't have a security blanket, but I still need my comfort pillow.

My toiletries? Bare minimum like everything else.

When did minimalism become this maximum?

I realize I've broken into a sweat. Somehow I power through to finish the task.

Woohoo, I am all packed! It only took me about...

I break my thought to look at the time on my phone. I also note missed calls and texts.

“It was just a backpack,” I sheepishly self-console, "but this time I've literally missed the boat."