At the airport, the day we left, prior to claiming my position in the plebe line, I had visited the bathroom, washed my hands, and then organized all the necessary travel documents to gain access to the popular side of the airport.

After a 10-minute wait, with John giving me the “you’re so common” look on the other side of security, I finally made it up to the magical portal entrance, the metal detector.  Believe me, I had done everything I was supposed to.  Removed my shoes and jacket to place them in a gray bin.  Removed my laptop and phone and placed them in a separate bucket.  I zipped up my carryon bag and gave it a nudge onto the rolling conveyor belt so that the TSA personnel could use their miraculous x-ray machine to check out my stuff. There was no possible way for me to be more “in compliance.” So I thought.

When it was my turn to walk through the metal detector, a tiny red light flashed and a mini alarm went off.  A kind agent asked me if I had keys or something in my pockets and insisted that I walk back and try again. I looked over at John and he rolled his eyes at me.  I walked back and attempted reentry. Red light! Red light! Red light!  Grrrr!

The kind TSA agent didn’t look so “kind” anymore, it was more like agitated now.  She pulled me to the side while another official redirected the grumbling people behind me to another line.  My once kind, now agitated agent pulled out what looked like a dissected Wet Wipe and swiped it over my hands.  She then laid the wipe on a scan machine and you would have thought that a plane was landing right there at the security area.  Bells, whistles and more red lights went off like the 4th of July!  My agent’s expression went from agitation to panic as she called for her supervisor. Her boss came over, took my bag and stuff off the conveyor belt and started rifling through everything I had, right there in front of the boarding crowds.  How embarrassing! All the other passengers glared at me like I was a pariah of evil.  Maleficent, Bellatrix Lestrange, Nurse Ratched, and Bonnie Parker were saints compared to how my traveling peers made me feel.

I started to rankle. Good grief, what kind of Bozos are these security people? Two female agents suddenly appeared from nowhere and motioned me to a room adjacent to the check-in area.  I was about to protest and tell them what I thought of their obvious ineptness, and then happened to glance across the way at John.  He ran his fingers across his lips, which even as a somewhat rookie traveler I knew to be the universal signal for “zip your lips,” or in this case, “Anel, keep your mouth shut!!!” I sighed, and when I saw one of the agents with her hand on her pistol, I minded my husband.

In the interrogation room (I watch a lot of spy movies), the door was closed and one of the female agents patted me down, while the other stood, blocking the door, with her hand still on her pistol.  They examined every item in my bag, as well as, every seam of my clothing, jacket and shoes.  

Finally, finally, they determined that I was “clean”. And, finally, finally, I spoke, “What the heck is going on??” (I think I said “heck” but it might have been something a little stronger, considering the adrenaline and all.)

The agent that patted me down replied, “Ma’am, our machines picked up that you have explosive materials on your hands. We had to check you out.”

HUH??? NO WAY!!!