The Battle of the Go Bag
When your husband wants you to be prepared, but you just want to be comfortable.
My husband loves me.
I know he loves me because aside from frequently telling me, he kisses me, he hugs me, he opens doors for me, he brings me water, he laughs at my jokes… and he packed me a go bag.
It’s a kind act, and one I don’t take lightly.
His silent statement of “I won’t leave you behind,” isn’t lost on me. I really appreciate it.
The problem is “he” packed it. And “he” was an Army Ranger.
A go bag is exactly what it says it is — a bag specifically designed to grab and go.
It’s a piece of luggage packed with all the essential items you would need to survive any emergency or short-term disaster that would displace you from your home.
It’s a great idea, however, my problem is with the subjectivity of how one approaches surviving.
My husband’s idea of surviving is, without saying, different than mine. Because, again, he’s trained for this stuff.
He’s trained to kill people; I’m trained to teach Pilates. He can fast rope out of a helicopter; I can do the Hundred without stopping. He can kill a high value-target; I shop at Target. He can sleep on the freezing ground; I can sleep in a tent (if it’s heated). He can ruck with 120 lbs.; my goal weight is 120 lbs.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being married to an elite trained soldier.
It’s like having your own, personal life-size GI Joe, minus the fuzzy hair and the weird bendy joints.
My husband looks at all dooms-day situations from the eyes of a special forces operator.
I look at them from the eyes of a civilized, middle-aged Pilates teacher who used to be a Las Vegas showgirl.
His emergency necessities consist of duct tape, 550 cord, and a lighter.
Mine consist of an eyelash curler, sunscreen, and a good moisturizer.
“Houston. We have a problem.”
My husband’s go bag never changes.
His bag is packed with all of his “everyday” clothes.
The outfit never changes — green cargo pants, black t-shirt, sturdy high-top boots, leather belt, wool socks, and a warm overshirt.
He also packed my go bag the exact same way — green cargo pants, black t-shirt, sturdy boots, leather belt, etc.
The problem is, I never dress this way! It’s yoga pants and soft sweaters for me.
When things go pear-shaped, when the shit hits the fan, when all hell breaks loose, and I’m forced to break into my go bag, I don’t want to be mistaken for a soldier.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just that I can’t run as fast or shoot as straight. And I’m a firm believer that it’s not right to look the part if you can’t act the part. Unless your Nick Cage.
I know my husband wants to keep me safe.
But I want to keep me comfortable. It’s bad enough that I might die, but to die in cargo pants would be worse.
When I try to pack my bag the way I want to pack it, I get knife hand along with, “Those heels are not practical.”
Common sense tells me I should listen to the guy who is trained for these emergency situations, but then I’m reminded of the time he tried to make me drive straight into a fire to “see where the source was.”
Let’s face it, I’m not dealing with your average everyday prepper. This guy can go days without eating, days without sleeping, and finds MRE’s tasty.
He will never understand the benefit of Spanx under your Onesie.
And so, the battle of the go bag continues.
I will always love and appreciate the fact that my husband is hypervigilant towards the threat of dangerous situations.
I know he is only trying to protect me; however, I will remain dubious in his ability to keep me happy, wrapped in a woobie, camped out on the floor of a high school gymnasium.
For that, I will rely on myself.
And Lululemon.
xo — Patti Jo
Thank you to all those who sacrifice in the name of protecting us, past and present.
