How to avoid getting arrested in the airport – don’t take my advice

I somehow made it through the past two months. One student conference, four research conferences, nine hours of classes (still working on that one), the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, the Junior Auxiliary Writing Contest, etc, etc. It. Is. OVER.

San Antonio was actually pretty awesome. I’ll have to post some pictures of my one-woman trip, but, for the moment, let’s focus on the airport.

After presenting my research and visiting the Alamo with my coworker and two students, my coworker drove me to the airport. I had no luggage to check; I had only the backpack. I packed light – after all, I was literally only gone from my house 49 hours and 30 minutes.

As I took off all my jewelry, shoes, etc. for the metal detector, Security Dude No. 1 said, “No, you go there.”

Through the full body scanner. The abhorrence of modest people everywhere and the frenzy of the media.

I just eyed Security Dude and kept walking toward the normal, NICE metal detector. Security Dude held his hand up. “NO,” he said more firmly. “You go THERE.”

I glared at him, rolled my eyes, and stormed off to the woman near the full body detector. Furious at having being chosen (note: the guy in front of me AND the guy behind me were also chosen for this, ahem, security measure). Furious that I hadn’t considered this beforehand and written on my stomach in a Sharpie marker, “Are you enjoying the view?” which, yes, had been my plan.

So I stormed in the full body detector. “You have to hold your hands up,” Security Woman said. Gritting my teeth, I pulled my hands up, my body slumped over in defiance. To which dude behind me starts laughing. Security Woman said, “Ma’am, you have to put your foot there.” I slammed my bare foot down and glared off to the side. “Now, don’t move.” The guy behind me echoed her, saying, “That’s right, don’t move.”

Yeah, I moved. And I might have said, “Apparently, I look like a terrorist.” Loudly. Okay, take away the “might have.” I did say it.

Security Woman, probably as hacked with me as I was with her (though that’s doubtful), tells me to just leave. Apparently they saw all they needed to see. So I storm over to the plastic bins area to put on all my jewelry and shoes. The guy in front of me joked, “You’re the common denominator. I got chosen, you got chosen, and the guy behind you got chosen. So you’re the problem.”

“I guess so,” I replied. “After all, I do look like a terrorist.”

The guy laughed. “Well, I’m from San Antonio, so I look like everyone else here. You’re the one who looks different.”

“Yeah, like a terrorist.”

For those of you counting, yes, that’s saying the “t” word three times in an airport with security guards.

Oh, my hissy fit continued.

So the bins are stacking up by this point because, NO, I’m NOT moving. Had I gone through the metal detector, I would have already put my jewelry and shoes back on and been on my way. HOWEVER, since they forced me to go through the don’t-worry-you-don’t-have-to-take-your-clothes-off-we-can-see-everything-anyway insulting device, I was taking longer than usual. Purposefully.

“Everybody needs to move over to the table to put your things back on,” Security Woman said. “Please move to the table. The bins are stacking up.”

No kidding. That’s what happens when you send three people in a row through the scanner. DEAL WITH IT.

The bins started piling up, and I was still putting on my earrings. I appeared calm, collected, and patient. But I was not.

I shoved two of the bins out of the way unceremoniously and loudly and continued putting on my earrings. Then my necklace. Then I took my items and casually walked away.

Actually, I think I took that rather well.