Well. Today is the day. Yes! I awoke to my father and brother violently puking, and my mother frantically pleading with our fancy, single-cup coffee maker to give her enough caffeine to survive through the morning. I called and cancelled plans for a goodbye-breakfast with my friend Leah and promptly began running around looking for things that a smart person would have packed days ago—toothpaste, sunscreen, etc. I hastily threw these items into a bag, and ran to the minivan. I dropped li’l sis, Charlotte off at school and broke basically every traffic law getting home.
I took care to remove my keys (the excessive jingling might awaken my poor, sick baby bro-bro!) and ran upstairs. I lost my wallet, found my wallet, realized that I had left my sketchbook and fabulous one-dollar sunglasses at work the previous evening, and then tore out most of my hair.
I finally arrived at the airport after driving halfway to Barefoot Beach and then, deciding that I couldn’t make it in time to catch my flight, making a spontaneous U-turn that angered most of the mid-morning traffic within a one-mile radius. I parked the minivan, patted her goodbye, and began to haul my one-thousand pounds of “essential” traveling and/or camping materials. I waddled that two hundred feet with a newfound appreciation for penguins and ducks and other gimpy-legged creatures.
I checked my larger bag without much trouble, and then headed to security through the sterile white of the terminal. The line was, of course, overlong and being attended to by a single TSA agent, a youngish-looking girl with a frantic look in her eye. She’d reach out for tickets and I.D., if the traveler took too long, her brow would crease and her fingers would ripple, pinkie to forefinger, impatiently. I presented her with all of my official documents and half-smiled. After making sure that I was, in fact, Elizabeth C. Gerrity, she waved me expressionlessly through.
I began to “airport strip,” if you will—belt, pocket change, shoes, and so on—placed my items on the belt, and watched the blue-shirted guy on the other side of “the porn scanner” (as conservative media so fondly refers to it). Without ever looking at me, he waved, and beckoned with two fingers. I, of course, did not beep because I am an outstanding American citizen, and why should I! I shuffled over to the opposite end of the conveyor, reaching for my computer, shoes, and belt. But—they did not come! No! The operator woman had a smug look on her face—smug like your fifth grade teacher when she finds you reading Lemony Snicket under your jumper when you are supposed to be learning the names of the Great Lakes. Hm!
“HOLD UP WE GOT LIQUIDS HERE!!! LIQUIDS!!!”
Oh, God Bless America. Did I pack my toothpaste in the wrong bag? Two attendants scrutinized the thermal imaging of my pink duffel bag. “We’re gonna have to search this bag.”
OH AND SEARCH THEY DID. The grumpy old man flung my bike helmet, shoes, Allen keys, and pedals into a grey bin. He rummaged around in my underpants until he discovered the offending items: an unopened tube of toothpaste (still in the box) and a brand new, sealed can of sunscreen. He smiled, pushed the remainder of my belongings toward me, and carried the banned substances away. Repacking my items, I noticed that the agent had not taken my brand new box of Guus—THEY ARE THE SAME AS TOOTHPASTE FOR THE LOVE OF MOSES—or a lighter that a friend had given me as a souvenir from a trip to France. Now, I don’t know about you—but between toothpaste and a lighter, I think I could do exponentially more damage with the latter. DRUGSTORE DEATHMATCH: Oral hygiene versus fire!! WHO WILL REIGN SUPREME?! Dumb.
I am now on a plane writing this and wondering if, somehow, the overlords of air travel will intercept my complaining and arrest me for my debauchery. I will fight to the death! I just watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith on cable. Once I find a really sexy man to team up with. I will take down Continental airlines. #ITWILLHAPPEN
