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Packing for a trip with a beer buzz … doesn’t everyone?

When I pack for a trip I like to have a bit of a beer buzz going. Am I the only one who likes doing that?

Packing for Sardinia trip/what's in my bag

I hate this person (Photo credit: miss_yasmina)

  I don’t think women would like to have a buzz when they pack. You ladies put far too much thought into your everyday appearance to even begin to fathom how fun drunk-packing is.
But it is. There’s nothing like arriving at your destination, opening your suitcase and finding out your drunk self totally forgot socks came in pairs. Or that drunkyou thought a collection of plaid shirts with striped pants was a … OK, that’s hyperbole, but you get the idea.
Packing when you’re drunk creates little magical surprises for you on the other end of the trip.
Either I like packing while drunk or I hate traveling so much that I drown my sorrows. Or maybe its both. I’m never really sure if its both. I guess that’s  because I’m normally drunk while packing, and traveling, and pondering which I hate more — but that’s a shitty blog intro don’t you think?
So yeah, we’re headed back to the United States in a few short hours. The flight is officially less than 24 hours away and I can’t tell you how excited I am to become reacquainted with my love-hate relationship with flying.
From the agony of security, the absolute joy of customs and the encouraging fact that every airport has a bar open somewhere no matter the time or … oh wait, that’s not true in America.
I just love cross-Atlantic flights.
From the weird antiseptic smell of the international lounge in Frankfurt, to the germ-filled aluminum flying tube, to the unprepared customs pods on the east coast awaiting our flight, I am fucking pumped. By pumped, I of course mean I need another drink, which I think explains why – as the departure clocks ticks away – I‘m still staring at unpacked bags.
Airport Security Playmobil

This is really a thing? (Photo credit: nedrichards)

I’ve had the opportunity to fly a lot for work. A couple of years ago I flew so often that in just a few short weeks I had racked up more frequent flyer miles crossing the “pond” than any sane person ever could have. It was literally a week in the states, a week back in Germany, two weeks in the states, a week in Germany … you get the idea. I racked up tons of miles back then. Most of them are gone now, but I was able to parlay the last few measly ones into an upgrade for my wife and me on this flight.  Barring another gig that requires frequent cross-Atlantic hopping, it may very well be our last.  

She doesn’t fly much. When she does it’s always with me, on vacation and short. She doesn’t understand what a pure and divine blessing this upgrade is. First-world problems I know, but fuck you I’m writing this you’re not.
I’d write more, but fuck, I’ve got to go pack.