Warning: Sharing Luggage May Result in a Commando Situation

The latest indignity thrust upon airline passengers at the hands of the airline industry is having to pay for each checked bag. The airline we usually fly, Midwest, charges $15.00 for the first bag, per person, and a whopping $25.00 for the second bag. My husband observed that it would cost more to check our bags than it did for one of our tickets for a recent trip to Las Vegas. That's when he came up with the insane idea to share a suitcase. And that's how I wound up going commando for five days in Las Vegas, not to mention arriving in Sin City sans workout clothes, tennis shoes, and noise-cancelling machine - all items I deem fairly necessary to survival in Vegas.

I understand airlines need to use every humiliating, dehumanizing, and ruthless money-saving tactic they can in order to stay in business, but, as with most executive decisions, there are always unintended consequences. One of them is pissing off every female traveler in the country, perhaps the world.

Packing for a trip has gone through so many evolutions in the past decade that I now have one piece of luggage that is virtually obsolete. It's called a toiletry case - an entire suitcase designated solely for all the lotions and potions that make a woman presentable and, might I add, happy. Mine happens to have a removable hanging insert that holds shampoo, conditioner, a razor, facial wash, and shower gel that functions as a hanging shower caddy. In the old days, before terrorists obliterated my packing routine, I could fill the bag to the brim with shampoos, perfumes, nail polish remover (and in much larger quantities than the measly 3 ounces allowed you're allowed to take in a carry-on) - any kind of potential bomb-making liquid that I used for hygiene, throw it in the overhead bin, and feel secure in the knowledge that even if my checked bag somehow got lost, I would still be gorgeous and smell great.

Alas, those days have vanished forever.

And so, the night before our trip, as my husband and I bickered over how much each of us could pack in order make sure we came in under the 50-pound limit - because they charge extra for over-weight bags, too - I reluctantly removed my tennis shoes and my workout clothes. Five days of Las Vegas buffets without exercise probably shouldn't put more than four sizes on me, I reasoned. My sleep machine, weighing in at at least a pound, maybe two, was also disqualified. I instead opted for a package of neon orange ear plugs. Who needs to sleep in Vegas, anyway? Which brings us to the underwear - the 6 pairs of hand-picked Maidenforms that I washed and then folded and placed in a neat stack on the bed just several inches away from the suitcase. It was the last thing that was to go in. Instead, while heatedly debating with my husband over whether he really needed to bring shorts and turtlenecks to Las Vegas - "Pick a climate!" I squawked - I picked up the stack, turned, and rotely placed them neatly in my dresser drawer - never to be seen again until 5 days later when I returned home.

In the pre-luggage limit days I would have been blissfully ignorant of my husband's travel wardrobe as we packed our montage of travel bags on separate schedules in private. In the no-limit luggage Camelot of yore, instead of bartering turtleneck space for an extra pair of heels, I would have given my full and undivided attention to my underpinnings.

I suppose it wouldn't kill me to bring a carry-on next time. The 3-1-1 rule seems a little less harsh after a forced panty holiday.