I know for a fact that I’m my own worst enemy, and I also know that I do everything to excess. It’s a disorder. Maybe I need wormed.

I’ve flown lots of zany stuff across the USA in my bags to our kids. There’s been so many gifts I can’t count, but I do recall once, years ago before X-ray, a small airport unwrapped 22 Christmas presents to see if I was carrying contraband. Eye-roll.

I’ve hauled ordinary things like candy or clothes to grandkids, but that’s where normal is capped and my crazy comes out because almost always, I take something I’ve canned or cooked.  There’s been jams, jellies, syrups, pickles, breads, cakes, muffins, cookies, glazed nuts, fudge, trail mix, elk, antelope, buffalo, deer, moose, rabbit, goose, duck, fish and perhaps my shining moment of glory-two boxes of Premium Creamy Ice Cream Bars, which were still frozen upon arrival.

Weight in an airline bag is my thorn in the flesh. A few weeks ago, as I prepared to fly to our daughter Lunny, in Verdi, Nevada, I considered baking and taking banana bread. First, I had no bananas and second, my bag was already over 50 pounds.

When I told Gar my wants versus reality, he laughed, “Sometimes the Lord has to put His foot down.” I fussed, “I know but it’s like, ‘Oh, there’s a corner I can fill. Wait. No, I can’t, an anvil weighs a lot.’”   

I surpassed my own nuttiness on the recent trip. Besides my stuff — socks, jeans, sweaters, jammies, undies, blow dryer, makeup bag, hairspray, extra shoes, parka, scarf and raincoat — there was my 10-pound purse.

For Lunny, I brought PJ bottoms, four blue antique jars, a 6-pound electric knife sharpener, a book, bread mix, the 5-pound top of her wedding cake I froze after toting from Canada, a quart of blueberries, a 3-foot tall wooden stool and, drum roll please … two dozen fresh eggs from a friend’s chickens. This could be my new side hustle and instead of a nice business name like “Angie’s,” I’d call it, “Pack Yer Crap.”

Prior to leaving, I googled the TSA requirements for taking fresh eggs in my carry-on. There were no objections. Eggs are one of the few liquids allowed, but I didn’t trust google so when I got to the airport, I mentioned to the first TSA guy that I had eggs.

He looked at me and said, “Excuse me, I thought you said eggs.”

I tested the waters with the next TSA agent by stating, “I checked the website, and it said I could bring eggs in a carry-on.”

He was busy and without looking at me said, “Oh, OK” and motioned me through like I’m all-knowing. I’m convinced I am, but it was a revelation to find out TSA thought so, too. Then he saw my small black roller bag with a yellow canvas pack stacked inside and frowned, “You carrying all that?”

I’d boarded planes with these two bags clustered together for 20 years and knew they were regulation-size, so whimsically replied, “Why no, I thought I’d leave them hither and dither like bread crumbs to find my way home.”

As I made my way to the back of the plane, it became suffocatingly hot. I placed my parcels under the seat in front of me and realized there was heat coming in abundance from a grate where the eggs were.

Concerned, I scooted the bags over, put my coat against the grate and my leg against the coat.

As we got settled, the flight attendant, realizing it was sweltering, announced, “Since we’re a luxury airline, we like to start out with a sauna for everyone in the back.”

Not to be outdone, over the intercom, the pilot quipped, “Wyoming is bipolar. It’s sunny, then it gets bad. We gotta get this plane gone before it starts that.”

Arriving in Verdi, nothing was amiss. The stool was great, blueberries were fine, antique jars intact, wedding cake still frozen, and not one egg had so much as a crack. Thank you, Jesus.

On the flight home, I had a delay in Denver so was strolling in the terminal. A father with, what appeared to be a 3-year-old son, was coming toward me. The little boy sauntered under a sign, but failed to clear it, smacking his head.

He didn’t fuss, so the dad just kept walking but, laying a hand on top of the boy’s curly hair, muttered, “Life is like that, buddy, just keep livin.”