One Shoe Over the Limit

What an airport scale taught me about packing for “maybe.”

The other day I was scrolling Instagram when an ad caught my attention.

Not because I needed another set of packing cubes.

I stopped because of the man promoting them—a podcaster I follow—and the unusual way the cubes worked. Once the clothes were packed inside, a small square device sucked the air out, compressing everything into a surprisingly small package.

As I watched, I found myself waiting to see how he would frame it.

Sure enough, the message was all about creating more space in your suitcase.

And he’s right.

Vacuum packing cubes can absolutely create more space.

Don’t get me wrong—I love packing cubes for keeping my suitcase organized.

Just not the kind that compress everything into a smaller space.

Because no matter how much room they create…they don’t reduce the weight.

That immediately took me back to two very different trips.

The first was Paris.

Now, in my defense, Paris is not the place to test your self-control.

While I was there, I found two beautiful winter coats at thrift stores, along with a purse that somehow insisted on coming home with me. I’m not one to argue with a vintage handbag.

As I stood at the airline counter waiting for my suitcase to be weighed, I was anxious.

The display wasn’t even showing pounds, so I couldn’t quickly do the conversion in my head.

I knew I was close. I was hoping I’d squeak by.

The gentleman behind the counter looked at the screen, smiled and said in a very French way,

“Ah, madam… your bag… it’s over.”

I smiled back.

“Really?”

“Ah oui…but today is your lucky day.”

“I’m going to let this go.”

Whew.

It really was my lucky day. No over the limit fees to pay.

The weight didn’t surprise me. Every extra pound had a story attached to it.

I chose those coats.

I chose that purse.

I chose to bring them home.

I’ve always been the kind of person who believes it’s better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it. I suppose that doesn’t just describe the way I travel…it describes the way I pack.

A few months later, I flew home from Halifax.

This time, I wasn’t worried.

I’d bought almost nothing. A few postcards, and a couple of magnets.

Certainly nothing heavy enough to put me over the limit. Why would it? It’s the same clothes I got there with.

I arrived at the airport early—as I always do—and headed to the service baggage drop. The line for the staffed counter was moving slowly, so another airport worker suggested I try the self service section.

I placed my suitcase on the conveyor belt, and watched it move away from me.

Instead of disappearing down the belt, it moved back toward me.

Again.

And again.

Finally, the employee walked over.

“It’s too heavy.”

I honestly couldn’t believe it.

He pointed me toward a scale and a small area where I could rearrange and re-weigh my luggage.

So that’s what I did.

I unzipped packing cubes.

Opened toiletry bags.

Moved clothes from one suitcase to another.

Shifted things around.

Rezipped everything.

Back onto the scale.

Still too heavy.

More rearranging.

More zipping.

More sweating.

Physically…and emotionally.

Eventually he suggested I go to the counter because I’d probably have to pay the overweight baggage fee. Where’s that lovely Frenchman when I needed him?

Actually the woman there couldn’t have been kinder.

Since the airline was already checking carry-on bags for free, she suggested I check mine.

Perfect.

I thought my problem was solved.

Except…It wasn’t.

Even after moving everything I could into my carry-on, my large suitcase was still just a little over the weight limit.

I kept shifting things around, but nothing seemed to make enough difference.

Then she asked me one simple question.

“Do you have shoes in there?”

I looked at her.

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“That’s probably it.”

Surely not.

But I pulled a pair out anyway. I moved them into my carry-on.

By then my carry-on was bursting at the seams.

One shoe fit into my carry-on.

The other didn’t. That second shoe had to go into my purse.

The suitcase went back on the scale.

Success. Just under the limit.

So there I was, walking through airport security with one lonely shoe sitting in my handbag.

By then I was relieved…and quietly laughing to myself. I was walking through the airport secretly carrying one shoe in my purse. Well…the TSA agent watching the scanner knew my little secret too.

After seeing that vacuum -packing cube advertisement.

I realized something.

Those cubes promise more space.

And they deliver.

Everything fits. But is fitting everything really the goal? Or is packing well the goal?

Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.

When I unpacked at home, I did what I always do.

I looked at the clothes I never wore and thought,

“Geeze…I didn’t wear that…or that…or THAT.”

I’ve never—not once—come home from a trip and said,

“I’m so glad I packed all those clothes I never wore.”

Never.

The truth is, I wasn’t carrying extra clothes.

I was carrying extra possibilities.

Every unworn sweater represented a decision I didn’t have to make before I left home.

Every extra pair of pants whispered,

“What if?”

What if the weather changed?

What if we went somewhere nicer than I expected?

What if I changed my mind?

At home, all those possibilities felt reassuring.

Standing in that airport, they felt surprisingly heavy.

It finally dawned on me that I hadn’t packed for the trip I was taking.

I’d packed for every trip that might happen once I got there.

The lesson wasn’t to buy better packing cubes.

It wasn’t even to pack lighter.

It was to stop packing for maybe.

That realization followed me home.

I just didn’t recognize it right away.

It wasn’t until a few months later, as I packed for another trip to Atlanta, that I looked at those same shoes differently.

This time, I wore them onto the plane.

They matched my outfit perfectly.

I wore them because I had finally learned something.

I didn’t need more options.

I needed to trust the choices I’d already made.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I hear that same word—maybe—in closets all the time.

Maybe I’ll lose the weight.

Maybe I’ll need this someday.

Maybe this style will come back.

Maybe I’ll be invited somewhere.

Maybe…

I don’t think closets become crowded because women love having too many clothes. I think they become crowded because maybe is such a difficult word to let go of.

Every “maybe” feels like we’re keeping our options open.

Until one day we realize we’ve been carrying possibilities we no longer need.

Closets become crowded for the same reason suitcases become heavy.

Not because we don’t have enough. Because we’re afraid to decide.

Maybe the goal isn’t preparing for every possible occasion.

Maybe that’s the lesson I brought home from Halifax.

I don’t need to pack for every possible version of myself.

I need to trust the woman who’s actually taking the trip.

Knowing what I will wear.

And bringing that.

The same is true when I get dressed each morning.

The less time I spend preparing for every “what if,” the more freedom I have to enjoy where I already am.

And somehow, everything becomes lighter.