Understanding the packing assignment is one of the great challenges of my life. In college, I went an entire semester without casual, class-appropriate gettups because I packed skank tanks from Forever 21 (c’mon, in was still in its hey day!) and a variety of sequin bottoms. Then at Marge’s grad from Wash
JewU, I packed an entire duffle back of wrinkled pastel bridesmaid dresses. And of course there’s LBI; I somehow have built the World’s largest collection of Cougar-worthy coverups and caftans and still find myself prancing in the dunes in my 3-yr old Lacoste tennis dress that makes me look like an Albino Usula the Seawitch.
Eff you in the bungus, TSA. Like figuring out my travel costumes wasn’t hard enough. How the tits am I supposed to simultaneously become a meterologist, art apprecator, linguist, and Jane Birken – AND jammed into a carry-on? Unless you’re Olivia Palermo, this is a hot mess waiting to happen.
NewYorkers hate tourists, it’s who we are. They crowd our subways, walk slowly on the sidewalk, have collectively turned Time Square, Soho, Greenwich Village, and Penn Station into strips malls – at least in NYC the pigeons and rats take the place of megachurches and face-eaters. Worst of all, the average tourist’s ensemble is an eyesore: sneakers, high socks, brighly-colored flowy top, JEGGINGS, and mini faux LV/Chanel purses galore. Have fun standing in line at Hollister, dumb dumbs.
Hence, becoming a tourist is demorializing, especially with those notoriously prickly Parisians. So, as the Festivus stocks up on Xanex, 50 Shades Book-Covers, and other necessary in-flight items, I’m taking owenership of the packing situation. Check it: