Even I figured that I was slightly mad for trying to squeeze in major surgery five weeks before I was going to rip the shit out of the strip in Vegas, but EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER is the way Your Aunt Becky rolls* and really, it’s no more insane than the normal stunts I manage pull off. And I always manage it one way or another. Why? Because I’m Aunt Motherfucking Becky.
But I underestimated precisely how laid-up I’d be by this surgery, which, frankly, is a good thing, because otherwise, I probably never would have gone through with it and although I may be in a lot of pain, so far, it’s been totally worth it. I’ve cut my dose of Topamax in half. I’ve had less headaches; less spasms. AMAZABALLS.
That all said, I’m still leaving for Vegas on Friday (by my lonesome) which means that I have to navigate the airport by myself.
The airport itself is no big deal. I’ve flown in and out of O’Hare a kajillion times. The problem is, well, me.
We’ve established that I’m a lightening rod of bad luck for security searches and weird, random stuff happening. Last January, the plane I was on nearly crashed. In May, my luggage was pilfered and stuff was stolen out of it. It’s better that I travel alone, lest I bring down the fury of The Airplane Gods, but still, it’s not terribly easy to walk to the bathroom, let alone try and travel a couple of hours with twenty pounds of crap.
Which means that I’m going to have to voluntarily bring myself out into the open at the airport, rather than the person who tries to behave like a nice ficus, blending into the background.
I’m going to have to be That Person.
I’ve thought about it thirty different ways, and there’s simply no other way. I’m going to have to ask for Airport Help. I’m going to be The Passenger With Special Needs. I may need a skycap.
Now, you might be saying, Aunt Becky, that’s okay. Who cares?
Well, if you’re the person who has been so thoroughly desensitized to the TSA’s searches that the NEW searches make you say, “Um, wait, that’s NOT what normal people have to go through?” then you know that calling more attention to yourself is like standing in the middle of a rainstorm on a golf course with a lightening rod. I’ll be the asswipe who needs to be screened in private because I cannot stand in a security line for an hour; the contents of my bags under total scrutiny. Can you say, “body cavity search?”
So maybe I’ll just play into it. I’ll wear my white patent leather hooker boots and an extremely short skirt.
Maybe I can find a strap-on somewhere, just for shits and giggles.
I mean, if this is going to be a disaster, it might as well be a disaster of epic proportions.
*Never, EVER to be confused with Rick Rolled.