My husband uses his suitcase for months after we travel. Not as luggage—no, no. As a dresser. As in: it sits open in our bedroom like a sad, navy blue clamshell he lives out of by choice. I have never understood this. I’ve asked questions. I’ve investigated. I’ve stared at it the way archaeologists stare at ruins, hoping the past will whisper answers.
And before anyone comes for me, yes—there is a massage chair in the corner of our room that I don’t use because I’ve turned it into a textile museum of clothes, blankets, and the occasional rogue tote bag. But that is not the point.
Sometimes I genuinely wonder: Does my husband’s perpetually open suitcase signal that he’s preparing to leave me?
Probably not, since he keeps asking me to fetch his Milo’s artificially sweetened tea. I assume if you’re planning a dramatic marital exit, you stop requesting beverage service.
But I will admit—his system is convenient.
When we went to Myrtle Beach, packing took him all of six minutes. Just toss in what he needed and boom—vacation-ready. Meanwhile, I was over here doing laundry, checking weather patterns, and making sure my skincare didn’t exceed TSA guidelines even though we were driving.
Now we’re leaving for Ireland next month (because apparently we enjoy cold, damp weather that slaps you in the face), and I guess he’ll be ready.
The suitcase is already open.
The man is perpetually half-packed.
He might actually be the only one of us prepared for international travel.
Absurdities and Fires 