The Price of Happiness . . . (Lynn Kerstan)

. . . is set by forces beyond our control. And because happiness is a treasure, we ought never to count the cost.

It will exact itself soon enough. Specifically, when the credit card bill arrives.

Because I’m happiest when traveling, I long ago learned to grit my teeth, go to the website, ignore the bottom line, fill in the method of payment, close my eyes, and click on "Pay Now." Why ruin wonderful memories with cold, hard facts? The money is gone. Time to live on peanut butter and day-old bread. Time to stash away money for the next trip.

It’s the unexpected costs that grill my liver, particularly those I accumulated through my own carelessness. I speak here of manicure scissors. In the last five years, by various means, in assorted countries, I have contributed eleven delicate and pricey pairs of little pointy scissors to the cause of airline security.

We won’t count the tweezers confiscated, or the toenail clippers. It’s the scissors that haunt me, especially when I have to fork them over at the beginning of a trip to a location where they won’t be easy to replace. Oh, and when I’m standing in front of the "implements" display in the drug store after a trip, calculating what I’ll be paying (for the umpteenth time) to pare my nails and trim my cuticles. Nails and cuticles do not, I have noticed, see fit to stop growing while I wait for an "implements" sale.

I’m a good traveler. I do my homework. Make lists. Pack with care. But the fact is, scissors have it in for me.

The first rogue pair was confiscated in Ireland. My alarm clock, clearly in league with the scissors, failed in its duty, so I wound up groggily throwing everything into my suitcase while a van-load of fellow travelers waited and griped. Ryan Air relieved me of the scissors. I offered the clock as well, but they wouldn’t take it.

I’ve lost four pairs of manicure scissors, at different times, in New York. My fault. Forgot to pack them in the checked baggage. What comes of last-minute rushes to New Jerusalem Pizza and Falafel for a dozen soft, sesame-seed-crusted bagels. I don’t begrudge the loss of scissors in the cause of the world’s finest bagels.

Never mind my other sordid tales. Tragic packing accidents. Until last week, that is, when I did everything right. Three visits (count ‘em) to the TSA website for the updated rules, which I can practically recite by heart. Leetle bottles of moisturizer and foundation, chapstick and lip gloss, teensy toothpaste tube, all the potential offenders neatly packed in a clear, one-quart-size plastic bag.

Best of all, my practically new manicure scissors and cuticle scissors were snugly nestled in my carry-on bag. That’s right. It is now legal to trot onto a plane with those suckers. "Free and clear," I thought. No more surrendering of the scissors.

But I didn’t count on Canada. Oh, they welcomed me warmly enough. Snow, glittering in the sunlight, lightly frosted the trees and ground. That’s a real treat for a San Diego gal. I was speaking at a writers conference in Calgary, where the hospitality, the professionalism, and the friendliness of the participants couldn’t have been bettered.

So I was feeling mighty fine when time came to return home. US Customs whisked me through right there at the airport. But then came Security–Canadian Security–and . . . you guessed it.

Yeah, I shoulda checked Canadian restrictions. It just never occurred to me. And today, at the drug store, I once again paid the implementary price of happiness.

No regrets. But in future, I think I’ll leave the scissors at home and wear gloves everywhere I go. On the other hand, the inevitably bare hand, when did I ever manage to hang on to a complete pair of gloves for more than a day?

Gloves, manicure scissors, and socks. C’mon, guys. What did I ever do to you?