Hey Splitsters – Split Sister Pam here, coming at you with a hot tip (literally). I live about 30 minutes down the mountain from Asheville, NC, and our local wildfires have been raging and making national news. Thankfully, I haven't had to evacuate (yet), but I was advised to pack a *go-bag. For the past almost* 30 years, my soon-to-be ex always handled disaster preparedness. So, for the first time, I found myself in full-on disaster prep mode, scrambling around late at night while the fire glowed ominously in the distance.
Fast forward a few days, thankfully the evacuation warning is lifted, crisis averted, but I got to thinking… what if you needed to suddenly pack a "go bag" for a dumpster fire of a relationship?
If you had to get out fast, what would be in your emergency breakup kit? Let's compare notes — here's what I packed, and let's see how it stacks up to what you might need for a quick escape.
So, I'm unpacking my emergency bag expecting to find rugged survival gear from an episode of Naked and Afraid. Instead, what I find is: Mildly Inconvenienced and Moisturized… a small salon and a faint whiff of poor priorities. And that's when I see it. Somewhere near the bottom, under the protein bar and anxiety… hair product. So much hair product.* Like, a salon's worth*.
*Dry shampoo (essential), in fact during my post-Hurricane Helene recovery, we had no power, no access to cash and I used my dry shampoo as currency. There is nothing a woman with 5-day-old unwashed hair wouldn't trade (food, wine, husbands) for some squirts of dry shampoo. My go bag also had detangler (non-negotiable), two curl creams (don't make me choose), a heat protectant (because nothing screams "ready for survival" like protecting your ends), and a mini bottle of shine serum I haven't used since 2017 but apparently felt I'd deeply regret not having during a fire evacuation, and my special hot air brush* (Thunder Brush) to style my way through the end times.
And nestled next to this shrine of vanity: my Multi-Purpose Lume Deodorant. Yes, Lume. The deodorant boldly advertised for use "anywhere you have odor." Armpits? Sure. Underboob? Of course. I packed it like it was a Swiss Army Knife of hygiene. Because if I'm in a crowded evacuation shelter with no A/C and close quarters, I'm not taking any chances. Lume isn't just a deodorant in this scenario — it's a peace offering to humanity.
The Tweezers
If there is one item that deserves a spot in every emergency go-bag, it's a good pair of tweezers. Sure, the authorities recommend water, non-perishable snacks, and a flashlight — but do they ever stop to consider the real crisis? Like, what if a ridiculously hot firefighter has to scoop you up and heroically carry you out of your burning home? Do you really want to be gazing up at him, smoke swirling, your hair all tousled in that sexy, damsel-in-distress way — only for him to lock eyes with The Rogue Chin Hair?
The Heel Foot File Pumice Tool
Because apparently, in the middle of a fire evacuation, my number one concern was: "But what if my heels get crusty?" Yes, I packed a heel pumice stone. For emergencies.
The Diva Glamorous Wash
That bougie fine laundry detergent — because nothing says "prepared for disaster" like making sure your emergency socks smell luxuriously pretentious. Was I planning to do hand-wash laundry in an evacuation shelter bathroom sink? We may never know.
The Pinecone Lime Body Butter
Did I think I was going to emerge from the ash cloud with dry elbows? Absolutely not. I brought the jar, people — not a travel size. Maybe I thought if I moisturized aggressively enough, the fire would respect my boundaries.
The Electric Toothbrush
Because even in chaos, oral hygiene is non-negotiable. I packed my full-size electric toothbrush like I was heading to a Marriott, not the floor of a high school gym. And of course, I forgot the charger. So at best, I had 72 hours of elite dental care followed by brushing with a sad, lifeless stick of entitlement.
The Journal from Panama
The same one I lugged to Panama for 9 days and only wrote one paragraph in, right after takeoff when I was feeling poetic about clouds. I pictured myself chronicling the human condition from a cot, sipping instant coffee, and writing raw, beautiful observations like, "Day 3: man in cargo shorts took the last granola bar. Am I the granola now?"
The Sweet Grace Scented Candle
Y'all. I brought a candle. A scented candle. Not a flashlight. Not a flare. A delicately fragranced Sweet Grace candle. Like I was going to create an ambiance while evacuating. I just knew if everything was going to burn down, it better smell lovely while doing it.
The Dead Flashlight
So I did, in fact, pack a flashlight. The batteries? Dead. Entirely dead. Did I pack extra batteries? No. But I did pack hope and delusion. On the upside, the thing is surprisingly hefty. So in a worst-case scenario, I could swing it like a medieval weapon or threaten someone with "a beam of emotional disappointment."
Snore Strips …for the Other Evacuees
Because apparently, in my twisted vision of community crisis, I imagined myself policing the snorers. Yes, I brought snore strips. Not for me. For "the others." Imagine me, middle of the night, crawling cot to cot, snore prevention vigilante whispering, "Sir… for the good of us all," and slapping a nasal strip on their face. You're welcome everyone!
The Comfy Lounging Wear
I didn't just pack clothes. I packed vibes. My favorite comfy lounging wear — buttery-soft, slightly oversized, the set that says "I'm emotionally fragile, but cozy about it."
Passport, Photos, and Papers
In the chaos of evacuation prep, I grabbed my passport like I was about to be airlifted to France instead of possibly spending the night in a Walmart parking lot. Alongside it? A very random assortment of family photos — not even the good framed ones. And then there was the envelope of "important documents," which mostly included my expired car registration, my voter pamphlet, and what I believe was a Chili's gift card (balance unknown).
And for reasons I still cannot fully explain, I also brought my grandmother's hand-carved wooden bird. It's about 12 inches tall, weighs practically nothing, and serves zero survival function. But in that adrenaline-soaked moment, my brain went, "You'll need emotional support. Take the emotional support bird."
So to recap: no multitool. One flashlight, no batteries. Zero plan. If my world burned down, I'd be wandering the wasteland with no signal, probably eating freeze-dried lentils with a plastic spork — but my hair? Voluminous. My armpits? Odor-resistant for three full days. My sense of priorities? Questionable at best. Moral of the story: next fire season if I have to pack a go bag, I might leave out one of the curl creams. But the bird stays. Obviously.
