When Northwest stopped allowing passengers to check two bags free, I ran out and purchased a very large suitcase for these long trips to Fargo. The suitcase is so big I could literally curl up and take a nap in it. Like, instead of paying for a plane ticket, my company should just stuff me in there with my iPhone and a bottle of Riesling and ship me as air freight. It’d be cheaper.

Last time out, I packed my new huge bag as full as I could make it. 16 days in the Dakotas, I thought, and this whole bag to fill. Why be stingy? Who knows when I might really need the Guess stilettos, or a green clay mud mask? It’s the little indulgences that make these trips bearable. So of course I got to the airport and the bag weighed like 60 pounds, and even after stuffing my carry-on with leggings and underwear we still had to pay the $50 overweight fee. I felt like an asshole. Here I am, the only girl on the shoot, with this ridiculous, mammoth, mind-fucking blue case stuffed chock full of dresses, tank tops, all my makeup, and (of course) a modest selection of accessories. Our soundman, by contrast, manages to survive with only a small duffel bag. Half of which is packed with his gear.

So last night, I went to Target and bought a scale. I’ve always been reticent to do so before, since scale-ownership seemed a bad pairing for the long-standing array of food / eating / body issues that hover just under the surface of my everyday life, but this suitcase thing was a real problem. Priorities. Back at home, I packed some stuff, weighed the bag and then I weighed myself with my coat on. Then I re-packed some stuff, re-weighed the bag, then weighed myself with my coat off. Then I had a cigarette, re-packed, re-weighed, and weighed myself in my pajamas. Apparently my coat weighs four pounds, and my new boots weigh .6 pounds. My street clothes weigh approximately one pound. Sixteen days of shoot clothes and assorted toiletries weighed 44.2 pounds. So I was good.

Apparently, though, the suitcase got a case of the 2am munchies, because this morning at the airport, it clocked in at 52 pounds… just the tiniest bit over the 50-lb weight limit. So, despite my best efforts, we paid a baggage charge anyway.

And now my bloated luggage is in Fargo, more likely than not, and I’m stuck in fucking MSP, which proudly proclaims itself a SMOKE FREE AIRPORT, and I’m waiting on standby for the fifth straight hour and clawing at my face with want for a cigarette.