Finally got through airport security and now sat hiding in plain sight people watching.
A people watcher, in an airport, with a laptop to hand. Pig. In. Shit. or what?
Although I’m still reeling a little from the ‘pat down’ Doreen just gave me. This woman was so up close and personal, she was practically wearing my bra. And is it true these guys (Doreen might have been a guy) are now allowed to do their patting inside the waistband? I might have chanced asking Doreen the question but for her buddies with the big guns.
People with guns necessitate a lot of respect, although how hard is it to be a tough guy with a taser? Put down the guns and tasers, and show us the real size of your manhood that’s what I say. Say in my head. Say in my head very very quietly.
Then there’s the security guys who take the diametically opposite approach. The over friendly, over jolly, hail fellow well met approach. All the while eyeing you with a more serious peripheral eye trying to espy the cocaine and AK47’s you have taped to your Spanx. As if anyone would be stupid enough to wear Spanx on a long-haul flight.
It’s the bracelets, you see, they mark me out as a person of interest every time I air travel. There are about…hang on let me count…
eight of them, some intertwined in that Russian knot style. I have had some of these bracelets a very long time, a few of which went on when my wrist was a young spritely thing of 18. At aged 52, some of that 18-year old sprite has fused itself to a more expanded wrist and they can’t come off without with the assistance of an electric hacksaw and a tub of Petroleum Jelly.
So, they beep. They beep every time and I have the same conversation at airport security. Every time.
Ma’am can you remove those bracelets, please.
They don’t come off.
No, you don’t understand, I got these when I was 18 and…
My religion dictates that I do not remove them and anger the God of Bracelets.
Step over here, Ma’am. My name is Doreen and I will be patting you down today.