"Reader, I married him."
So speaks one of the romantic heroines of timeless appeal. What Jane doesn't then go on to mention, is how irritated Mr Rochester gets with her when she starts packing her case for honeymoon. How, as she beguiles him to sit on it (the case) he gives her a withering look, and asks if she really needs those shoes and that dress. How the case isn't going to close. How they'll miss the horse and cart, if they're not at check-in 2 hours ahead, and can she please stop fannying about, get a move on, and just get herself a decent capsule wardrobe. (Ok, in fairness, I doubt any man ever has issued the words "capsule wardrobe", but you get the point.) Oh no, that episode is left out entirely. Now it may be that luggage allowance wasn't such an issue then. But it is now.
Boys and girls, yesterday's post was written with a veritable 'joie de vivre' in comparison to the topic I cover with you now. To-do lists? They're but a trifle on the dessert-laden trolley of emigrating. No, today I bring you tales from the world of the over-packer. Yes, luggage allowance is where the real stress is at. It's what separates the men from the boys, the weak from the strong, and me from my tweezers (if, yet again, I forget to move them into my hold luggage).
Luggage allowance is an indignity that we all must bear, whether holidaying or emigrating. We all face the moment at check-in when we approach the Scales of Doom and wait, watching, wanting to look away, yet not quite able to, nervously biting our lower lips (although this is also Stage 3 of my 7 Stage 'Flirtation Technique for not being charged if your suitcase is over the weight limit'... more details to follow), and waiting for that moment of clarification. Of knowledge. Of relief. For in that moment before the scales come to their vindictive or happy conclusion, the check-in person has your life (or wallet, at least) within their very grasp, and they know it. And you know it. And they know you know. It's like a cold war, on a very small but pertinent scale. When you're inside the weight allowance, you saunter away - almost dancing, but not quite (it's not that exciting, although it could be. My happy dance has certainly nearly escaped before now). You may give them a cheeky grin. You may act like an ice queen, as if it's all below you. But it's not. Nobody wants to be "that person" who has to rummage in their suitcase, chucking "non-essential" items into the airport bin, whilst trying not to dislodge your packed undies (thus causing a Knicker Mountain in the middle of the airport floor), or appear upset, as every other passenger in the terminal watches with a hidden smile and sense of schadenfreude. The smug bastards.
It's all coming out now... Oh, the trauma. Yes, I admit it. I admit that I was that person. And I hate being that person. To make sure that I never had to suffer in that way again, and in a bid to make my emigration process as smooth and painless as possible (like the laser hair removal of the emigration world), I recently purchased a digital scale. "No more excess charges!" promised the packaging. Excellent, I thought. Job done. Buy this, and no more excess charges. Why did I bother with shipping? Only, oh no. It turns out you have to actually use the thing, checking what your allowance is, and then ensuring you stay within it.
Easypeasy, right? WRONG.
For my trip from London to Sydney I have a hold allowance of 25kg. At 10pm this evening I was at 29kg. At 11:15pm, I was at 28.5kg. It ended up taking a further full 45 minutes (that's 2 hours total) to get to my target weight. Yes, if I was a Weightwatchers attendee, that would be fantastic. As an overpacker, however, even I have to admit that that's a bit ridiculous.
So, world, watch out. I've decided that not only am I launching my "Airport Flirtation Technique" course (remember Stage 3?), but I will also create the world's first Overpacker's Anonymous Group. It's not our fault that we overpack. It comes from a place of wanting to be prepared for every possible situation. Yes, you may be going to St Petersburg in winter, but what if there's a freak heatwave? What then? Overpackers think ahead. We may overdo it sometimes, but we attempt to manage our prior planning admirably. If we were politicians, our wardrobe policy would be "Equality & Inclusivity for All". And that's no bad thing.
Love,
BdS
x
And in brief - the 7 Stage Check-in Technique (tried, tested, and occasionally found to work):
So speaks one of the romantic heroines of timeless appeal. What Jane doesn't then go on to mention, is how irritated Mr Rochester gets with her when she starts packing her case for honeymoon. How, as she beguiles him to sit on it (the case) he gives her a withering look, and asks if she really needs those shoes and that dress. How the case isn't going to close. How they'll miss the horse and cart, if they're not at check-in 2 hours ahead, and can she please stop fannying about, get a move on, and just get herself a decent capsule wardrobe. (Ok, in fairness, I doubt any man ever has issued the words "capsule wardrobe", but you get the point.) Oh no, that episode is left out entirely. Now it may be that luggage allowance wasn't such an issue then. But it is now.
Boys and girls, yesterday's post was written with a veritable 'joie de vivre' in comparison to the topic I cover with you now. To-do lists? They're but a trifle on the dessert-laden trolley of emigrating. No, today I bring you tales from the world of the over-packer. Yes, luggage allowance is where the real stress is at. It's what separates the men from the boys, the weak from the strong, and me from my tweezers (if, yet again, I forget to move them into my hold luggage).
Luggage allowance is an indignity that we all must bear, whether holidaying or emigrating. We all face the moment at check-in when we approach the Scales of Doom and wait, watching, wanting to look away, yet not quite able to, nervously biting our lower lips (although this is also Stage 3 of my 7 Stage 'Flirtation Technique for not being charged if your suitcase is over the weight limit'... more details to follow), and waiting for that moment of clarification. Of knowledge. Of relief. For in that moment before the scales come to their vindictive or happy conclusion, the check-in person has your life (or wallet, at least) within their very grasp, and they know it. And you know it. And they know you know. It's like a cold war, on a very small but pertinent scale. When you're inside the weight allowance, you saunter away - almost dancing, but not quite (it's not that exciting, although it could be. My happy dance has certainly nearly escaped before now). You may give them a cheeky grin. You may act like an ice queen, as if it's all below you. But it's not. Nobody wants to be "that person" who has to rummage in their suitcase, chucking "non-essential" items into the airport bin, whilst trying not to dislodge your packed undies (thus causing a Knicker Mountain in the middle of the airport floor), or appear upset, as every other passenger in the terminal watches with a hidden smile and sense of schadenfreude. The smug bastards.
It's all coming out now... Oh, the trauma. Yes, I admit it. I admit that I was that person. And I hate being that person. To make sure that I never had to suffer in that way again, and in a bid to make my emigration process as smooth and painless as possible (like the laser hair removal of the emigration world), I recently purchased a digital scale. "No more excess charges!" promised the packaging. Excellent, I thought. Job done. Buy this, and no more excess charges. Why did I bother with shipping? Only, oh no. It turns out you have to actually use the thing, checking what your allowance is, and then ensuring you stay within it.
Easypeasy, right? WRONG.
For my trip from London to Sydney I have a hold allowance of 25kg. At 10pm this evening I was at 29kg. At 11:15pm, I was at 28.5kg. It ended up taking a further full 45 minutes (that's 2 hours total) to get to my target weight. Yes, if I was a Weightwatchers attendee, that would be fantastic. As an overpacker, however, even I have to admit that that's a bit ridiculous.
So, world, watch out. I've decided that not only am I launching my "Airport Flirtation Technique" course (remember Stage 3?), but I will also create the world's first Overpacker's Anonymous Group. It's not our fault that we overpack. It comes from a place of wanting to be prepared for every possible situation. Yes, you may be going to St Petersburg in winter, but what if there's a freak heatwave? What then? Overpackers think ahead. We may overdo it sometimes, but we attempt to manage our prior planning admirably. If we were politicians, our wardrobe policy would be "Equality & Inclusivity for All". And that's no bad thing.
Love,
BdS
x
And in brief - the 7 Stage Check-in Technique (tried, tested, and occasionally found to work):
Stage 1. Smile - not too confident. You want to show the check-in-beaurocrat that you understand that you're now in their power, and you accede graciously to it.
Stage 2. Lift bag onto scale as if it's feather-light. Do not huff or puff. This is not the Three Little Piggies. If your luggage is overweight, hopefully CIB (check-in beaurocrat) will believe the scales of doom to be lying, as you surely couldn't have hefted 30+kg all on your own. (Note: this works best if you are, like me, not what you'd call tall. Or muscular. Sorry. But listen, if you're tall / muscular / both, that has its own rewards)
Stage 3. Nervously bite your lip. But in a unintentionally attractive way. This takes practice. Don't be ashamed if it takes you a while to master the dark art that is The Lip Nibble.
Stage 4. The hair ruffle. Yours not their. This is not the time to be done for harassment.
Stage 5. Eye contact. Not creepy. Not staring. But just, a gentle look of "you are a beautiful person, and you really pull off that horrible nylon uniform. Well done you." If you can manage to convey that, without words, you shouldn't have to pay for additional luggage charges ever again.
Stage 6. Focusing on them. No, again, not being creepy. But not talking to your friends either. Just, making CIB realise that right here, right now, they're your focus. You respect them. Maybe you even want to emulate them. Although that's probably going a bit far. You're nearly on the home run. So, we move on to
Stage 7. At this point, you should have your boarding pass. Take (don't grab), smile (more confidently than before), thank them, and walk (calmly) away. Then (out of sight) do your happy dance. Trust me on this. Doing it in front of them only leads to questions. And you don't need that.
