So I’m sharing it now, post-cruise, because it still deserves daylight… and because honestly, the chaos aged like wine.
I don’t know who decided traveling light was possible,
but it has never been my ministry. My suitcase has been overweight since 2004,
and honestly? So am I. With cruises, it’s even worse. People who’ve never
cruised think it’s “just pack a swimsuit and go.” No, my friend. A cruise is
theme nights, formal nights, smart casual nights, hot days, cold nights (or
vice versa), sea days, port days, photos you might use for Christmas cards,
outfits that hide emotional snacks, and at least one identity crisis where you
stare at yourself in the mirror wondering, “Am I elegant? Am I weirdly sporty?
Am I suddenly an orange-wearing Dutch princess because Holland America has an
Orange Night for absolutely no reason?” It’s a whole character arc.
Every year I promise myself I’ll pack less, and every
year my packing list evolves like a virus—stronger, smarter, more resistant to
my lies. I end up sitting on my luggage, praying over the zipper like it’s
fighting for its life. And the worst part? I pack knowing full well I’ll need
extra space for souvenirs.
Filipinos know this pain on a spiritual level. Pasalubong
culture is real.
Pasalubong basically means:
“I missed you, I was thinking of you. Here’s something to prove it.”
It started as a sweet gesture— just a token for the
people you care about. But it grew. It mutated. Suddenly you’re shopping for
your entire community: family, extended family, coworkers, your boss who
approved your leave, your neighbor you hardly know, whoever might feel offended
if they don’t get a keychain or nail clipper.
And the OG pasalubong? Those T-shirts with the name of
the place in giant letters. Because nothing says I love you like turning
your relatives into walking billboards: “YES, MY TITA WENT TO HAWAII.”
Somewhere between packing, praying, and panicking, I
tried to revive my husband’s beloved white Vans—the only pair he ever wears.
Let’s call them “prehistoric white,” because no one remembers the original
color anymore And like any delusional wife, I thought I could save them. So I
asked GPT (mistake #1), forgetting it’s a language model, not a washing machine
technician. It told me to mix baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, vinegar, dish
soap—basically a potion that belonged in a science fair. I mixed it, enjoyed
the fizz like a child, slathered it on the shoes like cake frosting, and left
them outside to dry because GPT said sunlight would “activate the formula” more
than my prayers.
When I
checked, I froze.
They looked crispy.
Crackly.
FOSSILIZED.
Like something an archaeologist would dust off and whisper,
“Remarkable.”
Not white.
Not beige.
Not even cream.
Just… ancient.
My husband stared at me like I murdered a family
member. So I did what any panicked wife would do: ordered three new pairs on
Amazon Prime. At this point, UPS probably thinks I’m opening a Vans outlet
store inside our 55+ community. (Yes, they check our ages. Annually. Yes, it’s
awkward.)
Meanwhile, I tried to squeeze in pre-trip self-care. So
I booked a Brazilian wax.
Biggest mistake of my week.
The wax lady showed up late, didn’t apologize, and
rushed like she was on a game show with a countdown timer. I left with patches
— literal patches — of hair she skipped like she was editing my body.
And they were long enough for you to ask, How can she miss those? UGH.
Three days later, she emailed to offer me a free touch-up.
So… she knew all along that she botched it? Meanwhile, I didn’t even have time to give feedback.
Gurrlll.
Should I FLY BACK for the twenty-one hairs you left behind? Should I rearrange
my life for humiliation part two?
Yeah, I know — I should’ve checked the moment she said,
“All done.” But I didn’t have time. She didn’t even let me put on my underwear
post-trauma.
And the receptionist? Didn’t ask how the service was,
didn’t even fake concern. Instead, she went straight to the script — like a
trained robot — aggressively upselling another waxing package like it was Black
Friday.
Then came the airport, where the audacity is unmatched.
Tiny toddler-sized Pringles for $5. Water for $6. Snacks so small you could
inhale them by accident. So yes, we brought our own snacks like smug criminals.
And of course, I refilled our giant water jug at the airport even though the
water tasted like sadness and metal. It’s the principle.
All this madness, and that’s before we even reached the
ship.
Maybe that’s why this post never made it before the
cruise—I was too busy living the comedy. The stress. The pasalubong
diplomacy. The Vans funeral. The wax trauma. The airport robbery disguised as
snacks. The emotional weight lifting, the literal weight lifting, and the
spiritual weight lifting required to survive a luggage scale.
And yes — the ship Wi-Fi absolutely refused to
cooperate, because why would it support my dreams when it can ruin my upload
like a jealous ex?
Now that I’m home, this forgotten draft feels even funnier.
Better, actually. Like a blooper meant for the end credits. I’m sitting here
rereading it—laughing, crying, and low-key missing my free bottle of Moscato
from the ship.
And now I’m wondering: is this alcohol withdrawal… or do I really sound like a funny Karen when
I write like this?
And honestly?
This chapter deserved nothing less.
Should we do a Part 2?
Because I have thoughts.
And stories.
And possibly another pair of Vans hiding somewhere in a suitcase.
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