Taking a pause in the packing, I look around and wonder what the towels, the clothing, and the odds and ends say about my life. The beach towels say that, despite all rumors to the contrary, I am a bit of an optimist. Although the temperature has not broken 65 for the past two days, I still believe that swimming might be possible on our trip next week. Then again, our weather can be distinctly different from weather in the Poconos so perhaps the beach towels just mean I�m practical.

The list itself tells me something. I am a woman who makes lists. I have a master packing list for me and for the girls. I rely on that list. The last time I traveled, I did not make a list. I regretted it. My stepmother-in-law graciously lent me a swimsuit but it had flowers on it. Me, in flowers. Still, I was very, very grateful to get it---and I went back to making lists.

But the suitcase says the most about me. In lighter moments, I would say it says I am a saint. But saints don�t complain the way I have been known to do. My suitcase, you see, is a shared suitcase. I share it with Mr. Philately. I share it even while longing for the days when I was young and single and had my own suitcase. I share it while pining for the ability to rifle through my own stuff and not worry about anyone else�s. I share it while bristling at the thought that my stuff is more squished than I had hoped. I share it while knowing that I could handle my own stuff more easily than the monster heavy suitcase we share.

But Mr. Philately views sharing a suitcase as an act of love. We share a house, we share a bed, and we share a suitcase. He will say it is about practicality. He will tell me that it is easier and that it makes sense. True, he often is a practical man. But let�s face it. It�s not about practical. If practical were the overwhelming impulse in his life, I would not be turning the cold water in the bathroom on and off with a pliers, waiting for him to realize that we just are going to have to bite the bullet and pay to replace the faucet.

I will bet that my friends, the ones I used to fly alone to see, never realized that one of the pleasures of my trip was having my own suitcase. The first time I got together with friends like Mary, the Queen, and Bev, some of them were amazed that I used such a small suitcase. Little did they know that I was amazed that I had my own suitcase at all.

On one or two occasions, I have refused to share a suitcase but I have not enjoyed it as much as I had hoped. Mr. Philately looked so forlorn and disappointed. He handled it with an inward sigh that sucked all the breath out of my inward squeals of delight.

And so I have faced it. I am married---for better, for worse, and for shared suitcase.

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