I have a love-hate relationship with packing.

Not packing as in peanuts. Not packing as in crates. Not packing as in boxes or tape. Not packing as in a wound. Not packing as in heat. 

Packing — as in suitcases. 

I love it. 

And then again, I hate it.

I wish I could say I love to hate it, but that just a isn’t true.

It’s the dichotomy that is true. 

Loving something and hating it at the same time, it almost feels like a lie. But in this case, the thing that feels like a lie is the truth, as oxymoronic as that sounds.

How can you love something and then hate it all within the same minute?

Here’s the deal, I love packing because I love planning and, for me, packing involves a whole lot of planning — and organization — which I love as well. I also love anticipation. 

Who amongst us doesn’t?

And isn’t packing the epitome of anticipation — typically of something fun, like a trip to the beach?

Every outfit, every pair of shoes brings with it possibilities. A swimsuit, cover-up and flip flops promise a sunny day at the beach. Something fancy hints at a night out at an upscale restaurant. Good walking shoes illustrate hopes of a hike in the mountains or maybe a trip to the zoo. Even a comfy sweatshirt and slippers give a nod to relaxed mornings sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee.

In a nutshell, packing is putting into motion the positive anticipation of vacation. Let’s go!

So there’s the love part.

You might be wondering where the hate comes in.

But then again, it’s probably pretty obvious: I hate that I am not better at packing.

First, I pack too much. Too many socks. Too much underwear. Too much of any sort of clothing, jewelry, shoes, hair products, and beachwear that I’m not going to need, but think I might need and you never know so you might as well stuff it into the suitcase until nothing else will fit and then you just hope for the best in weather, activities and everything else that might or could come up in the next seven days.

I hate the uncertainty of seven days (also known worldwide as a week). What if the temperature is colder than expected? Or warmer? What if it rains? Or snows? 

Second, I pack too little. How does one possibly prepare for an entire week away from one’s closet — with only one suitcase? I’ve yet to answer that question — philosophical or not. But the conundrum does thwart me. 

A memory of a trip to the happiest theme park on the planet still haunts me. My kids were young. It was March. The happiest place on earth was supposed to be warm. It was not. And I had failed to pack sweatshirts for anyone in the family. 

Of course we could buy sweatshirts, but that does not negate the ineptitude involved in not packing sweatshirts for your family in March just because the average temperature is non-sweatshirt-worthy, and sweatshirts take up a fairly significant amount of valuable real estate in the average carry-on suitcase — not to mention the conundrum of where and how to pack those newly-acquired sweatshirts upon returning home.

I love vacation, and I love packing.

I love vacation, and I hate packing.

Much like I love vacation, and I hate vacation. 

When it ends.

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at slicescolumn@gmail.com.