What can I expect from someone who thinks that getting dressed up means changing his socks.
“Ten days,” Jack says. “We’re only going for 10 days.”
By Muriel Lilker
“Remember,” my husband exclaims, “we’re taking only one suitcase apiece!”
What can I expect from someone who thinks that getting dressed up means changing his socks.
“Ten days,” Jack says. “We’re only going for 10 days.”
If you think I’m looking forward to this vacation you're wrong. I’m used to just piling stuff in the car, which is fine for New Jersey. But since there’s no way we can drive to London, this clothes horse is in trouble.
If only I knew what the other women on the tour will be wearing. Especially when they're coming from such different places as Helsinki, Tokyo and Detroit. Do people in Helsinki wear leisure suits?
“Listen,” Jack says, “I’m already packed so I’m meeting the guys for tennis.”
And off he goes, leaving me to sweat it out.
Will it be warm? Will it be cool? Will it rain? Will three pairs of slacks be enough? And why is it that the black ones, which go with everything, are the ones I can’t zip up?
So I decide to take the yellow, too. And the gray stripe. And the navy crepe. And of course the plaid.
I forgot dresses! I can’t go to Westminster Abbey in pants. The rose print in the back of the closet looks British. And what about nightclubbing? Do they wear off-the-shoulder in England?
Finally I’m packed, but only if I go in sneakers and without makeup or jewelry.
I’ll bet there’s room in Jack’s suitcase. Oh no! He can’t go to Buckingham Palace in his old tweed jacket. It’s not even good enough for Northern Boulevard. I yank it out. And what’s with these beige trousers? Out.
All these socks! Two pairs are enough. He can wash them at night.
I put my shoes in, and only hope five pairs are enough. Is there room for my cosmetic kit too? There is when I take out one of his sweaters. Make that two. One sweater is all he can wear at one time. It’s not cold in London this time of year.
How about my jewelry? At once I make room for it by taking out his electric shaver. He should give his face a rest while he’s on vacation.
Before Jack returns I spread an extra pair of his pajamas in there to cover my tracks.
“Well, we’re all set now,” I tell him cheerily.
But are we? Two days before we leave I wake up in a cold sweat. I’m convinced I’ve forgotten to pack something vital. And I won’t know what it is til we’re 5,000 miles from home.
“Don’t forget,” Jack says, “you can buy something there.”
I can? Does that mean I might have to sneak something else out of his suitcase to make room for it?
“Tell me,” Jack asks, “what do you think of this for traveling in?” as he struts in front of the mirror in the same jeans he takes the recyclables out in. “They're nice and comfortable.”
“Sure,” I say, “and the flight attendants will ask you to get rid of the extra soda cans. Come on, Jack, we’re going on vacation. Dress for it.”
Who am I to tell him? I’m passing up jeans for the yellow linen pants suit which begins to wrinkle as soon as you look at it. By the time we arrive at the hotel, I’ll be in creases from my head to my socks.
Jack waves me away and continues to admire himself in the mirror.
“Next time we go somewhere,” he says, “start packing early like me, and you won’t have to worry.”
Uh-oh! Wait’ll he starts unpacking. Will he notice what’s missing? Can I talk him into growing a beard? Should I offer to wash his socks?
