Airports are fascinating places to while away a few hours except for one thing.  They are like a seat at a window unto the world and its people. I must admit I am a people watcher.

That one black cloud in the airline skies ? It is the security check. One knows it is necessary, and helps one to feel secure in your fellow passengers too, but I feel anything but secure as I stand in that line up. Where is my cellphone? How fast can I get it, my laptop, my shoes , my coat, and my make up out and into that tray without making the person behind me sigh in impatience?  All while holding my passport and boarding pass. I now take NO measures:

• No laced shoes
• No wedgie shoes (they may have metal arch supports)
• No clunky metal jewelry
• No belts, especially those with clunky buckles
• No keys (it’s easier to stage a break-in when you return home)
• No Otrivin ( Kow’s of course) in your little plastic resealable bag of makeup, because it leaks (believe me on this one).

Minor inconveniences, you say?

Yes, they are. But somehow against all laws of averages, who is it that always gets singled out for the pat down? Or put in the body scanning machine? And gets taken away to the little room for a further screening? Me. Kow just shakes his head, and laughs.

Now I am not a terrorist, nor a mule, so it shouldn’t bother me. But perhaps I have read too much over the years and have an over active imagination… what if someone planted something on me and I am unjustly accused? My mind goes to those novels based on what must be one of the “seven plots” used by a few (shall remain unnamed) popular authors. So innocent as I may be, can you see how the security line strikes terror to my heart?

For any of you who have escaped the “little room” scene, you are escorted by two security persons (in my case female) to a small private office and patted down all over again ( and I don’t mean the second time all over again), asked to sit down and show the bottoms of your feet ( may not be pretty at this point after having walked barefoot through security and to the room) and submit them to being rubbed down.  My mind races at this point. What if there are banned substances on the floor that I walked on? I imagine a suited businessman remembering the little bag of cocaine in his pocket as he approaches the table of trays and furtively emptying it over the floor, all the while pretending to brush off his little cat Snowball’s hair as he complains and smiles apologetically to the person behind him. Back to reality. One guard performs all this armed (handed?) with plastic gloves while the other watches looking bored. You then wait until the gloves are whisked away to be tested. Arghhhh! The guards are skilled in the art of deadpan expressions. Suddenly you are free to go. But the wait seemed like an eternity.

My original concern after a bout with breast cancer a decade ago was that perhaps I should not travel wearing my prosthesis as I would not want it to be destroyed during one of these ultra security exams ( the darn things cost mucho money ) but apparently,  it is not what triggers  the“ OK let’s do this one”decision, as it is entirely ignored in the process. (if it is not ignored next time, I will know someone somewhere in airport security reads this blog.) So, as I look like any normal middle aged Cha Cha (no grannies need apply), I must blame Luck as in being the nth passenger that is checked routinely.

I should perhaps buy more lottery tickets.