The last time I boarded a plane, my Patagonia-clad ass was headed from LAX to PDX in beautiful Portland, Oregon. I was–as I often am–taken to the side of the TSA lines for an extra special search. Next to me, a 60-something man covered in head-to-toe Jets gear was getting a body pat-down, down to the spaces between his sock-covered toes.
The TSA clan swabbed the bottom of my backpack, which I will admit was probably covered with graham cracker crumbs, to test for explosives. The man in charge of rummaging through my items was incredulous that my yoga mat–which I cannot spend a week without–was an actual mat. He inspected my pedometer (yes, my pedometer, shut up, I’ll be laughing last when I live forever from walking 10,000 steps a day) for bomb triggers. My face was checked against my I.D. four times. My faux-wood glasses went through the X-ray machine three times. I walked with my arms out in a T through a plexiglass puff-search machine. TSA guy smooshed my egg and watercress baguette, messed up the tight suitcase packing of my perfectly rolled clothes, tore the box of the Sophie giraffe I was bringing my nephew, and dropped my Chanel eye palette on the ground. DICK.
But hey, my Jets fan friend and I were eventually sent our way. And the trouble was all worth it–for the safety of the Portland-bound, for the safety of the plane, for the peace of mind of the people. And hell, it happens to me all the time.
So I just have one question.
HOW DID A PRETTY AND YOUNG CHINESE DUDE IN A SCOOBY-DOO LATEX MASK, IMPERSONATING A 55-YEAR-OLD AMERICAN BY LOOKING LIKE A CRANKY OLD OCTEGENARIAN, GET THROUGH AIRPORT SECURITY ON AN INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT FORM HONG KONG TO VANCOUVER?
Wait, another question: Can those HK airline security dudes move to LA? I’m sick of that puff-search machine.
(Pretty sweet disguise though, I’ll give you.)
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