Boomer Pants

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

There’s an uncomfortable curse I’d like to debunk. One that’s all too familiar to those of us hailing from days past. It involves travel and its dogma regarding “acceptable” ways to show up anywhere in the world while living out of a suitcase. 

This “doctrine” involves, ahem, undergarments. Lest you think this TMI, many of us bona fide Baby Boomers were brought up believing it’s critical to stow as many pairs as possible, because, well… you never know. And we have dragged this mental and physical baggage along both domestically and abroad. How could we not? Generations before us sternly cautioned:

Random fender bender? Better have clean underwear… either on or immediately available. 

Unexpected hospital visit? One had best be wearing immaculate underpants… or have someone bring them ASAP. 

Surgical procedures in which undies are likely removed are clearly incomprehensible. The fact that hospital personnel see more than their fair share and do not care does not exist in Boomer logic. 

Visiting friends or family? For heaven’s sake wear shiny scanties…  and take enough to never have to use their laundry room as this is clearly bad manners.

Vacation? Take several pairs of unsullied undies… since anywhere other than home is a third world country offering only fig leaves for cover.

Lost luggage? One must ALWAYS carry taintless undershorts in their purse or murse.

Random meteor strike? You guessed it… squeaky-clean undergarments save humanity. 

Random dribble? Spare underpinnings are now permanent residents in your vehicle’s console along with breath mints, loose change, straw wrappers, and random ink pen.

Even Hollywood has weighed in. Woody Allen once said: “I don’t believe in the afterlife; although I am bringing a change of underwear.” 

Whether we Boomers want to admit it or not, the aberrant focus on plenitudes of tightie whities (and a ridiculous need for clairvoyance) has permeated much of our existence. So much so that this creed has (forgive the pun) leaked into every other aspect of packing.

So, imagine my packing chagrin when a lengthy international holiday presented itself. With rising checked bag fees, being ready for anything as a carry-on-only trekker had never been more daunting. 

My first flight was in the late 1960s, a 30-minute hop from Pittsburgh to Akron. My mother’s idea – a girl’s trip and my official coming out as a traveler at the tender age of five – to visit an aunt. Mom and I were dressed to the nines, sporting a regal air because we were, you know… flying. One of the many things my mother mandated for the long weekend along with her arched brows and high standards: spotless underwear for all days, plus spares. 

Had it been up to Dad (a country boy), a knapsack and precious paucity would have sufficed, but Mom haughtily dismissed that practicality, citing the possibility for more than one set per day as de rigueur.

Not that we traveled in squalor as a family, mind you, but it was absolutely necessary in Mom’s mind to have plenty of pantaloons to cover all the what-ifs, regardless of our brief direct flight; few days away; no potty accidents on my part; safe family drivers; and exceptionally rare apocalyptic atmospheric activity in eastern Ohio (or anywhere else for that matter). 

My impeccable manners on the trip were rewarded with a pair of wings pinned on my sailor dress lapel. Coupled with Mom’s smug smile of satisfaction, we were lingerie-ready for anything – the pinnacle of every “successful” trip.

I invite this unmentionable topic because I’ve had an epiphany concerning my Panty PTSD: A souvenir of that first trip was the seed to overpack that flagrantly bloomed like a bad weed over consecutive years. I can no longer recall the actual contents of that first suitcase, but I have zero doubt that my lilliputian case was unmercifully stuffed to the expansion zippers (if they even existed on early American Touristers) with too many frillies.

Packing the car for family road trips usually had mild-mannered Dad swearing like a sailor and sweating profusely as he stuffed too much of everyone’s flotsam and jetsam into the generous trunk of our Ford Torino. We ALL took too much crap, except poor Dad, left with sparse pickings for trunk space. It simply seemed how we not-so-aerodynamically rolled. 

Subsequent solo trips over many years found me grunting and groaning as I lifted or carried far too much in general for fictitious scenarios, having to occasionally rely on other unsuspecting, hernia-free souls to assist. 

Until one day, on a solo flight home from Florida, my gargantuan checked bag weighed over fifty pounds and a horrified (and miserly) me hurriedly reshuffled some unmentionables into my already heavy tote bag. This personal yard sale of course happened at sidewalk check-in with a throng of impatient travelers surveying my underpinnings. It sparked a revolt within, the discovery of packing cubes, and a quest for knowledge. 

I am NOT suggesting going without skivvies or forsaking hygiene. What I AM suggesting is this: Boomer packing policy is clearly up for revision. Must we really remain so dependent on so many knickers for a great trip? To be clear, it took me years to relinquish my inherited burdensome packing rules but here’s the truth:

One can purchase said necessities anywhere in the world.  

Apocalypses are statistically rare.

Technically, you only need 3 pair: Wash one, wear one, spare one, because sink laundry is freedom.

Others are too caught up in their own adventure to worry about what you do (or don’t) have on. 

While I’ve learned many useful things from my parents, traveling light was not one of them. My mother is likely rolling in her grave at the thought of carry-on-only travel. But perhaps not. She too was burdened by Victorian parents whose rules once mandated layers of undergarments. I know Dad certainly bore the brunt firsthand of weighty, pantaloon-rich travel. But my hope is they’re both cheering me on, albeit for separate reasons. For Mom, I get to see places she never had the opportunity (but desperately wanted) to, and with far less emotional and physical baggage to schlep around. And for Dad, my ability to easily carry my own wares without perspiration or profanity. 

This Boomer has been freed. Now, I happily pack far less and know I will be just fine wherever the wind takes me. Because at the end of the day, not one traveler who has had to handle their own luggage will ever utter: “Sure wish I’d packed more skivvies.”