The Not-So-Friendly Skies

Against my better judgment but needing to get someplace in a hurry, I flew in a commercial jet this past weekend, which for me is a Big Deal. Ever since the time I wasted a really good high sitting on the tarmac for several hours, I wait until just before take off to drink a Bloody Mary and swallow a sedative, which means there was only coffee coursing through my veins while going through security. Sadly, I was wide awake for that.

We arrived at the airport with time to spare, especially since our flight was an hour late. After giving blood and urine samples curbside and signing over all rights to our first-born at the ticket kiosk, we approached the security compound. I immediately felt guilty and checked my pockets for drugs, box cutters and guns.  All clear. Next I removed everything and awaited my assignment to one of several contraptions, based on the assessment of the bitter TSA agent who could not find a better job and so, as a perk for standing there all day and staring at x-rays of luggage, gets to decide who looks like a terrorist and humiliates them accordingly. My husband's recent shoulder surgery prevents him from raising his arm above his head, and so he said aloud that he could not enter the little wind tunnel where you raise your arms above your head and hold still for a scan of your entire being, soul included.

Once Mitch uttered that, it was obvious to all TSA agents that he had explosives stuffed into every orifice of his body and thus he was treated to a "pat down" by a perverted little weasel of a man who stuck his hands into and under and over every inch of Mitch's body. Very slowly, if you ask me, and Mitch reported later that it had been a tad too intimate for his tastes. Then Weasel Man rubbed his gloved hands with some explosive-finding substance and re-checked a few areas, finally placing Mitch's wallet through the x-ray machine, just in case of a wallet bomb. While Weasel Man performed his lascivious task, I was completely ignored despite being totally naked and so strolled through with nary a glance from anyone. (I was so sorry I left my inter-uterine bomb at home--that would have fixed their wagons.)

After that ordeal, which Mitch handled much better than I--all he did was roll his eyes, while I was quite verbal about how stupid it all was-- I finally drank my Bloody Mary and swallowed my little white pill. Next time I will ingest those in the parking lot when we get to the airport.