Carole's Blog

Infrequent Flyer

I flew to the east coast recently. True to form, I was pegged to be searched. The gentleman told me the computer picked me. But I don’t know the computer and the computer doesn’t know me—other than by boarding pass information. Evidently that’s enough.

Almost every time I fly, some unspecified computer selects me. Perhaps it’s the e on the end of my name or my demeanor. But how can the computer sense that?

At any rate, I was asked to step to the side. A smiling but no-nonsense female official gave me the once-over with her metal rod after directing me to a certain spot. She then informed me that she was going to pat me down—using the backs of her hands on sensitive areas—thankfully.

By this time, my personal items were coming to the end of the conveyor belt. An official in that area asked, “Whose items are these?” I raised my hand as I verbally responded and began walking towards him. Let me tell you. Don’t ever do that! I thought I was going to be tackled, cuffed, and hauled off to prison!

The smiling lady who had patted me down was no longer smiling. She was not happy with my response to her coworker’s question.

I appreciate and respect these officials’ positions, but coordination is lacking in some instances—like this one. The male official who had asked the question was obviously looking for an answer. And since it was my personal belongings, I responded. What did they expect me to do? I was not about to ask.

When the formerly smiling lady was satisfied that I was concealing nothing—other than a few extra pounds of fat—she released me to reclaim my belongings.

I scurried to the countertop at the end of the conveyor belt and watched as another official went through my carry-on. Or at least what I thought was my carry on. I had to check it to the tune of $15 because my cosmetic bottles held too much liquid and were in the incorrect size bags and exceeded the specified number. 

Okay. No problem. I was willing to check it. Now for the fun part: I left the area to go check my bag, and when I returned . . . you got it. I had to go through the entire routine again—pat down and all. Oh, well. Personally, I’d much rather go through that than to see a slipshod routine.

Thanks to all the officials who help keep America safe—including the formerly smiling, no-nonsense lady who was kind enough not to reveal my concealed fat.

Safe flying!

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