By Claudia Chyle Smith
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, April 23, 2007

In my heart, I'm still an adventuresome 20-something girl, unburdened, unfettered, free to fly away on a moment's notice. I like to think I can travel without care, without lists, without hesitation. I require only the bare minimum. My skin? Flawless, thank you; no cosmetics needed. My hair? A glossy mane of naturally wavy, sun-streaked tendrils. My clothing? A print wrap skirt with a tank top, an extra pair of au courant underwear and I am ready to go. Anywhere. Stuff has no place in my lifestyle.

Yes. My fantasy. My cherished, old old fantasy.

In reality, I'm the one who always checks her luggage and drags a gigantic tote bag onto the plane. It's loaded with sandwiches for the entire family. ("You brought sandwiches? You actually brought sandwiches? Hahahaha. Say, this is good. Can I have some carrots and cookies, too?") I lug magazines and bestsellers, my journal, pens, my pharmacopeia, a zippered bag full of jewelry, a fold-up umbrella and a change of unmentionables in case the baggage handlers really do send my suitcase to Portland, Ore., instead of Portland, Maine.

And in my suitcase, the very one someone behind the counter slapped a "Warning: Heavy Bag" sticker on, is clothing that can handle sudden, severe changes in the weather. Sure, there is a tank top, but I've also got a long-sleeved T-shirt, a fleece jacket and a Gore-Tex raincoat. Let the weathermen with the Super Doppler Digital Viper XT weather forecasting equipment say, "Uh-oh, looks like we're in for some weather changes this weekend. Better cancel the barbecue and dig out the wellies." Buddy, I'm all there.

I am also a walking CVS. Did you cut yourself? Here's a tube of antibiotic cream and a variety of bandages. Your stomach hurts? Have a Maalox. Your head aches? Advil or Tylenol? And I have Benadryl and a nebulizer for my asthma.

When my friend Linda travels, she takes only black clothes, and precious few of them at that. She has a tiny, doll-size suitcase, and her clothes, I hear, actually roll around in it. But she's a petite woman and I imagine her clothes pack petite, too. She always looks smart and put together.

"How do you do it?" I ask one day.

"Accessories," she says. "Here, I'll show you."

And that's how I learned about belts, scarves, pins and such. Believe me, if the government cracks down further on how much our suitcases can weigh, I will toss the fleece jacket but will fight to the finish over two chiffon scarves, a periwinkle pashmina, a black patent-leather belt and my golden retriever pin.

To save space in my suitcase, I have tried using those super-large plastic bags that condense three sweaters into a wrinkled, prune-like package that weighs a ton but is much smaller volume-wise. My accessory-savvy friend is aghast that I would need them.

"No, no, no," Linda says firmly. "You only take one sweater and you wear that on the plane."

That never works for me. It seems that I am always traveling with the wrong type of fabric, too. When polyester was queen, I had little kids and didn't go anywhere. Now that linen and the other 100 percent natural fabrics are in, I get to my destination with a suitcase full of wrinkled clothes.

And never with just the right outfit for the occasion at hand. I always wish I had that navy jacket that would look so good with these chinos or that green twin set and the delicate silver necklace. I can handle rain or shine, or 40-degree changes in temperature, but still am never dressed quite right for a sudden invitation to dinner at the best restaurant in town or a hike in the hills.

Packing gives me a headache. It did long before the latest government regulations. And I have finally figured out why. Packing means I have to make decisions. And I hate to close the bag on options. Why not red and blue T-shirts? Dress pants and a skirt? Linen jacket and a denim vest?

I wish I were that adventuresome fantasy girl but, honestly, I never was. I'm me, packed with all my life-long foibles and insecurities. Though I wish I could simply toss an extra wrap skirt into my oversize handbag and take off, I know that I'd get on the plane and say, "What, no snack mix? I'm starving. And it's cold in here. Where's my sweater?"