The Glamour of Abdominal Surgery

A Non-Kate Middleton Story

Within twenty hours of abdominal surgery I had to take my youngest daughter to a doctor’s appointment in famed-Encino. I’ve been working, same daughter and I were taken on a five day holiday and I’ve walked an average of four-thousand three-hundred steps since being sewn up.

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The night before our flight home I repacked the bags. They were full. That type of full where, when unzipped, everything pops out like clock-springs.

“You’re two pounds over.” Blonde-haired and short, the man in the blue uniform says, “You can repack or pay one hundred dollars. It’s two pounds. Take out a pair of pants.”

Yes, I think, it’s two pounds over. Four pounds, sure, charge me or make me repack. Two pounds is margin of error as far as I’m concerned.

I’m standing in the dark cold of the five a.m. desert, Las Vegas airport.

Above me, on repeat, Sheryl Crow sings, “I’m leavin Las Vegaaaaaaaaaaaassss!” Like Sisyphus, a snake eating its tail.

I thought about how I’d sweat and panted on the ground the night before as I packed a hundred and fifteen pounds of luggage. I thought about all of my shoes and bathing suits jumping out of the bag and onto the sidewalk if I unzipped it.

“I’ll pay the one hundred dollars”

“I need a card.”

“I have Apple Pay.”

“We need a card.”