I packed about 74lbs worth of crap. My thoughts were that if I was ever caught in a blizzard in August, somewhere along the flatland of Utah and the bulging crescents of Colorado’s finest geological structures, then I would have the necessary clothing to survive. I quickly realized folding sweaters in the middle of a heatwave in New York City is the most agonizing packing session I’ve ever experienced.

This, you might think, is stupid. And it is. But I schlep New Yorkers wherever I travel and can’t help it. “It’s better to have too much than too little.” What milk carton did I get that advice from? So when I arrived at the Delta counter two hours early, tossed my bag onto the scale and the meter read “58″ for one bag, I thought, “Some seasoned traveler you are.” Who carries four hardcovers, a stack of Joan Didion paperbacks and oral history bricks (You’re the man, Studs.) on a cross-country flight with a layover?

I spent the next five minutes at the airport rearranging underwear while dodging Senegalese missionaries and luggage carts. “You have to do that on the side, sir. They’ll get mad at you if you open your bags here.” In the end — after a two hour delay and another delay at my layover stop in Salt Lake City, Utah — I arrived in Boise, Idaho with a library start-up kit and a jug of protein powder (intended for consumption immediately after a workout or whenever I am too lazy to scramble eggs). Triumphant, I came to one suddenly grotesque thought: how lame will it be to show my future kids a bookshelf with only a Kindle staring back at them?