So, there you are. In the security line at the airport. It’s almost your turn. You should be excited about the trip that you are about to take, but all you can think about is the hassle you have to go through to get there.
It wasn’t the booking of the tickets that unnerved you, it wasn’t the seventeen alarms you set on your phone so that you didn’t sleep in, which was a moot point because you woke up every six minutes and checked the time anyway. It didn’t even bother you when you answered the “did you pack the bag yourself” question for the 18thtime as if that was the time they would catch you out. “You know, I didn’t pack my back, this strange fellah in a white van marked ‘terrorist’ said he would give me five million if he could repack my bag, and I thought ‘what a sucker, five mills for letting him pack my undies’.”
What is it about the security line? You know that you have nothing bag in your bags, nor do you have a gun, a bomb, or those notorious nail clippers that they must take off you for you not to take the plane apart bit by bit over an eternity. Yet, you still think that when it’s finally your turn to go through you are going to set off an incident and Bruce Willis in full ‘Die Hard’ mode is going to have to put you down.
That is what has taken the fun out of traveling. That and being felt up by a TSA agent that doesn’t believe a machine that’s more qualified then they are when it says your clean. There’s also being “randomly” selected for additional probing as well.
Is it any wonder that our crotches are flooded with sweat by the time we even get on a plane?