The more Homeland Security tries to protect me at airports, the less secure I feel.
I appreciate their efforts. But my mother taught me to hang undies on clotheslines behind shirts, not display them to an airport’s entire population.
Some passengers appear comfortable with security procedures. A toddler accompanying Daddy at check-in attempted a striptease.
A young man in a nearby security line entertained a similar viewpoint. Clad only in overalls, he suddenly slid out of them. Grinning as passengers and officials gawked, he ambled through X-ray, wearing skinny shorts he’d concealed underneath.
As if that little surprise weren’t enough, the Weird Wand Committee greeted me for the umpteenth time this year.
Airports never have put me at ease. The hallways always resemble a buffalo stampede. Paying more than air fare for coffee and a muffin made me see red long before Red Level threats ever existed.
However, I can’t escape the worst threat to my security: me. At a newsstand, I heard REESE’S Peanut Butter Cups, like sirens, calling my name. Hypnotized, I answered — then put the candy down, determined not to blow my diet. I bought a newspaper and exited, playing human bumper cars on my way toward Security.
As I searched in my purse for ID and boarding pass, I discovered a REESE’S Peanut Butter Cup!
My evil stomach had bypassed my brain and shoplifted candy.
No alarms sang, rang or buzzed, no lights flashed when I walked out. No steel doors blocked store exits, no iron cages dropped from the ceiling. No soldiers poked bazookas in my back. Where was the FBI? the CIA? Interpol? What kind of security system allows a dangerously unbalanced chocolate/peanut butter klepto to run loose in our nation’s airports?
The peanut butter cup emitted seductive fragrances, and I nearly gave in. But I forced myself back to the store, where I set up surveillance. While the clerk scanned merchandise like a robot, I slithered in and hid behind half-price pink polka-dotted luggage, sneaking candy from my purse. Studying the National Enquirer’s front page (did you know Elvis is one of Donald Trump’s children?), I sneaked the REESE’S Peanut Butter Cup back among its own wicked kind. Then I headed for Security before my degenerate stomach could grab a dozen more.
They haven’t learned how to x-ray consciences yet, have they?
Okay, ’fess up: what’s your least favorite airport story?
The lady sat behind me in the waiting room before we boarded sneezing, coughing and gagging like she was going to pass away the next second— I moved away and she changed her seat right behind me again. I moved to another chair on the next row. Good! No toxic cold germs for me! Then when we got on the plane— she sat right in front of me in the next row and coughed her way to Las Vegas. I got hit with her nasty junk by the time we arrived at the Grand Canyon. CURSES!!!! I gagged and coughed on the flight home with a headache from you know where— Wonder who got my bug? Bu wah hah hah!
Urghh, Dori! Sounds like her germs were stalking you! Maybe people like that should be required to wear masks or ride out on the wings? Hope your whole trip wasn’t ruined.
Thanks for telling me your story, and may your flu season be nonexistent!
Fantastic story, Rachael! Sounds like something that would happen to me. ..
I had the blessing of going to Israel a couple of years ago. for the trip home, I wore capris and sandals. Once in my seat, I put on compression socks so my feet wouldn’t swell as they did going there. I kicked off my sandals and prepared for the flight. When the packed plane took off, one of my sandals rolled away, not to be found. It was dark inside the plane and night time besides and while I couldn’t sleep a wink for 11 hours, no one else had a problem with snoozing. Afraid I would lose the other sandal, I slipped it on my socked foot and hobbled my way to the bathroom when needed. Once we finally landed, my missing shoe surfaced and I slipped it on too. So looking no doubt exhausted, in capris, socks and sandals, perhaps it’s no wonder that in the airport I was pulled out of line for questioning about my whereabouts, why I visited Israel, if anyone gave me anything to carry and then they tested my hands for gunpowder. Apparently I looked like one scary person! Or maybe just a fashion criminal.
LOL, Donna, I can’t imagine that you looked like a threat to international security! Why do they pick on us mom types?
I, too, have traveled to Israel, and while the traveling-to torture was worth every ache and pain, I try to repress it.
May your next airline journey exclude turbulence, both in the air and on the ground!