Three Suitcases

Dear Reader,

I did not pack tennis shoes. After much internal debate, I decided to leave my American shoes here, in America. My exercise will come from walking, hiking, climbing, and schlepping, but not from jogging. If I were in crazy good shape, and could sprint through Italy with a smug, “Well, I have to keep in shape for the Montana triathlon” side smile, I would “just do it.” But, with my nursing breasts, child-baring [and baring and baring and baring] hips, and slow gait, I figure I am not going to fool anyone. I will walk, like those skinny Europeans do, while enjoying café and croissants, in my sensible black shoes.

So what is in those three suitcases of stuff? Amazingly, I packed few clothes for all of us. Instead, I have packed the beginnings of a new Walgreens store. Two bottles of fluoride rinse, Tylenol, Benadryl, Motrin, Cortisone…and then the infant versions of each. I also have enough cosmetics to start a theater company, which is odd because I don’t wear that much make-up, and certainly don’t plan on putting on a play, but have decided I need my purple sparkle eye liner just in case. Ditto for the tanning cream: with and without golden flecks. I imagine Michael’s face when I pull out the third bottle of baby sunscreen, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Still, three suitcases are fairly reasonable for the six of us. In college I had to flirt with the underclassmen to bring up my four huge suitcases into the dorm room. Alas, those flirting days are over: the only men interested in helping a 37-year-old woman with four kids just for a flash of a smile are way too old to be carrying luggage up stairs. So, I’ll be right behind Michael carrying my share of bags. With age, I guess, new kinds of exercises are explored: and all in comfortable--but not tennis--shoes.