The thing in the world I hate more than packing a bag is unpacking, and of all the things I've done so far, there's nothing I've hated more than turning my bag inside out after returning from Hajj last week. “Why is there this fan?” I asked myself this as I threw away everything I didn't use. “Why did you take a cool towel? What's the point of this umbrella? Why did you take all these clothes? And what idiot would fall for a super easy air mattress?” Less is more The reason we packed so many items in our luggage (some large, some heavy, and most of them useless) was that we faithfully followed the instructions of a kind soul who had done so before. “I did my research and prepared a list.” Her husband said solemnly. He loves lists and research, just like the Kardashians love trillion-dollar conditioner. “I bought an extra Ihram, two rechargeable fans, two inflatable mattresses for a night in Muzdalifah, two cool towels and four bathroom hooks. Oh, and don’t pack too many clothes for the day. You only need one set.” I had less expectations than the person who made this list. I'll be spending 30 minutes at this house during birthday party season looking for a balloon pump before trying it the traditional way. I had no intention of inflating the mattress. I informed him of this. “That’s ridiculous!” he shouted. “Let me show you. It’s very simple.” He inflated the mattress in about two seconds, and with such skill he made it very clear that it would take me half a day before I had to throw it away. But I was told to stop being a baby and start packing. So I put the clothes in (counting one set per day as instructed). “How’s your luggage?” A few weeks before I left, everyone asked me: Everyone on my contact list was excited about my packing. “Are you ready? Are you ready?” “Oh, great.” I answered confidently, like a politician in an election year. I haven't even decided which bag to take yet, or whether I'm going to take many bags yet. “It couldn’t be better!” From their awe-inspiring tones, it occurred to me that the packing of an average person's lower extremities requires military-level precision and takes at least a month to execute. I packed my bags in 5 minutes the day before my flight. I didn't tell anyone about this. (Until now, of course.) What I can tell you right now is that even the five minutes I devoted to packing was four minutes too long. Follow the rule of wearing only one piece of clothing per day. You won't need more than two pairs for a week. Even if you're in a seven-star hotel version of a tent, you probably won't even think about changing your outfit. If you think you're a woman, the line to use the bathroom at Mina Arafat campground is about 1,000 miles long. When you finally inch your way to the bathroom (leave about 45 minutes for this exhilarating adventure), you'll feel gentle waves against your feet and see the essential used tissues and other unspeakable objects floating in the water like water lilies. Plus, your carefully packaged bathroom hooks will have as much suction power as cornflakes. Now say it. If you're holding up your abaya with one hand, are you going to use your other hand to change into something else? No, you are not a magician's assistant. By the way, if you are a man, throw away the extra Ihram before you leave. Hajj requires lugging a lot of stuff around, and the last thing you want to do in the sweltering heat is carrying extra Ihram in your backpack. The extra Ihram defies the laws of physics, gaining weight with each step you take, making it as much as an adult rhino. Ihram is a sturdy and resilient garment. No chance of spilling a tin of paint or getting torn apart by a tiger during your travels. If you do, there will be 50 other men carrying Ihram in their backpacks, who will happily throw Ihram at you. You already have a fan in your bag that doesn't work, a cool towel that stays cool for 3 seconds, And you have an umbrella that slows your progress as you bump into the 2 million other people in your way. Now you have enough to do. A word about the bathroom This bathroom situation could have ended on a happier note for me personally if we had booked a large operator. Our operator was a pleasant man who promised the highest quality bathrooms in Mina, but he was no match for the dragon woman who guards the good bathrooms. The dragon women were hired by much larger and much more expensive operators, and guarded both the latrines and their mess halls like elephants with newborns. We were led to a toilet with a hole in the floor, where we could choose whether to cry or hold our breath. (Doing both these actions at the same time is difficult.) If I don't dare reveal the name of the expensive operator, they might send a team of dragons into my private bathroom and deploy them. But there was no dragon in the men's bathroom. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?” My husband always asked me when I held a mini-conference outside our tent in Mina where my fellow campers bitched about wanting to turn up the air conditioner to 24 degrees in 50 degree heat. “Our bathroom was empty.” Whenever I'm at the airport, a museum, or a campsite in Mina or Arafat, I always hear reports from my husband about empty bathrooms. But not everything was doom and gloom! When we arrived in Muzdalifah, justice was served when my husband made a trip to the bathroom, waited in line for an hour, and when he finally arrived at his destination, he didn't breathe for the next 30 seconds. To end on a perfect note, after an hour of bathroom exploration, he had to blow out two very easy mattresses for 30 minutes, then spend another 30 minutes putting them back in the bag. After 16 years of marriage, you learn to cherish these small victories. Have something to add to the story? Share in the comments below.