The Joys of TSA

Just a few thoughts before we land into Cleveland in about 40 minutes. I’m sandwiched in between a stranger and Shaun. I am not a fan of middle seats. Or airports. Or airplanes, if I am in them. And especially not TSA. Every time I fly, I must talk to myself about giving grace to the poor TSA employees who probably take enough flack on their job to kill a …. I dunno, worm or something. They work hard, you know, to make sure that people like me with internal hardware, odd medications, and even odder diets have the best of experiences. Like never passing through without an inspection of some sort, maybe even two or three.

In past TSA security experiences, I’ve been frisked, patted down and up, or wiped off with some sort of magical baby wipe that tells them if I’m about to blow up an airplane, as they suspect. The wipe down was completely. Necessary. After all, I was a short, skinny, female cracker who had tears in her eyes after saying goodbye to her daughter and grandbaby. A dead giveaway for someone about to commit suicide in the name of Allah in the hopes of killing hundreds of infidels. I mean, can’t you see me bashing about the airport or an airplane screaming “Allah Akbar! Can’t wait for those 12 virgins I’ll get in Heaven!” And then blowing everyone up? Totally reasonable.

My watch and food were of concern to the TSA today, because what! pray tell! am I hiding behind my size extra small watch with a super skinny leather band and a face the size of a quarter! Dynamite, right!?

Gosh I feel safe. To think that the hundreds of people I’m flying with have also had their watches scrutinized and their sandwiches screened and sniffed and probably sampled (who knows?) gives me such a warm, fuzzy, secure feeling. I’ve been snoozing off and on the entire flight because, as that sweet little TSA sign that I believed so wholeheartedly said:

My safety is their priority.

Anyway, the TSA peeps. I guess they’re just trying to make a living like everyone else. Except for those few who once took up groping and got caught. But for the wages, why not flip hamburgers? I mean, if all the TSA agents either quit or went on strike because 1) lack of wages and 2) lack of dignity for taking a job that requires them to snoop and frisk until every traveler feels violated and angry, then maybe the government would have to instill some kind of real security system. Like arming guards who fly on every flight, and heck, maybe even arming passengers.

God forbid we should put people in charge of their own safety. And God forbid we implement a security system that might actually put the fear of the one, true living God and of Americans who refuse to be pansies into terrorists. Instead, we’ve decided to pamper the terrorists, and punish the innocent, all in the name of security – that elusive little emotion that we’d all like to grab hold of and can’t, because the little blue TSA Smurfs just don’t do it for us.

Strange how 9-11 happens and then I, a law abiding citizen, am required to prove over and over I’m not a terrorist. Of course, no profiling! So the fact that I’m a whiter than white, book-toting, needlework-toting cracker who doesn’t fit any sort of terrorist profile never plays into the scenario. I guess when you’re providing for everyone’s “safety”, common sense is chucked. And taxes are raised to cover the cost of inconveniencing every American traveler since 9-11.

Makes. Total. Sense.

As you can see, traveling makes me grouchy. I forgive the little blue TSA Smurfs. As I finish up this article, I am resting in the motel, while Shaun goes to Wal Mart to retrieve the ingredients to the food I must make for myself. TSA did let me through with all my weird and quirky food items and cooking utensils and even a dehydrator (yogurt maker) and juicer. It’s a miracle, really really really, that they didn’t tag my yogurt as an explosive and send me straight to the FBI. Clearly, with a dehydrator and white liquid, a bomb is being planned.

Rain is coming down hard, which I always find relaxing and romantic and stuff. It reminds me of when we lived in Indiana. The clouds sit low, atop your head, unlike Colorado, where, if it rains, the clouds stay up high, so as not to oppress.

In other news, Cleveland seems kind of shady, but it has a lot of oxygen, so that’s nice. I saw the Cleveland Clinic on the way from the airport to the motel. There are several campuses/buildings, so I’m unsure if what I saw is where I’ll be going. Time will tell.

Signing off now, so I can nurse my lurking migraine. On the plane, I read a book about contentment. The Apostle Paul was mentioned of course, because he talked about being able to be content whatever his circumstances. Clearly, I learned a lot just by reading a few chapters. I mean, content with the TSA. Content with rain. Content with Cleveland. Content with a migraine. That’s me.

Tomorrow will be a better day. I can go my own speed, eat when I need to, sit when I need to, walk when I need to, sleep when I need to. I’m utterly content with the body of death God gave me.

Seriously … I am.

Until tomorrow, or shortly after (when I will be less grumpy and more serious about life) …. toodle-oo.