My dislike of TSA is pretty well-documented. Despite my panic attacks, I opt out of the sexual assault machines every time I travel because a) the radiation levels in those machines are considerably higher and less safe than the government has told us and b) if they want to strip search me, they can damn well present me with probable cause and a warrant, like the law demands.
So I stand in line shaking and making snarky comments about actual freedom and the relative safety of guns in schools vs. toothpaste in airports, while I wait for my turn to remove my dignity layer by layer and prostrate it before some otherwise-unemployable asshole with a high school education. Then I opt out and stand quietly while they pretend to call for backup for 20 minutes when really they’re just waiting me out in the hopes that I’ll give up and go through the cancer machine.
Eventually an ambiguously-gendered female agent who would need to be watered once a week if she moved any slower will wander over and escort me through the metal detector (which won’t go off) and roll her eyes at me when I request a private screening with Charming present. Then Charming and I will be stuffed into a supply closet along with two female agents, one of whom will explain how she’s going to assault me before she does so.
I grind my teeth and gnaw on my lip and beg them to get it over with as quick as possible. By the end, I’m nauseated, shaking and no more of a terrorist than I was before some poster child for inbreeding groped my ass.
But yesterday, that all changed.
You see, I discovered the magic of
lying telling a
future-truth to make the screening process simpler for us all (me).
Yesterday, after I’d removed my Al Qaida-issued Uggs and placed my shiv-concealing Coach belt on the x-ray machine, I approached the most grandfatherly looking of the available TSA agents and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m pregnant.”
I mean, by law in Arizona, you’re considered potentially pregnant for at least two weeks before your next period, so it possibly could have been true. If I weren’t on birth control or whatever.
The TSA agent made some sort of weird garbled noise, as old white men are wont to do when presented with Mysterious Female Issues (then some of them try to legislate on those issues, without knowing a damned thing about them of course, but that’s beside the point), and tried to assure me that the cancer rays were totally safe. But very quickly – and before I’d said another word – he offered to let me go through the metal detector instead. You know, just in case.
I simpered and thanked him obsequiously, with one hand placed protectively over my Christmas-turkey-and-sweet-potato-casserole-baby belly. “It’s early yet, and I don’t want to take any chances, you know?” He nodded hastily, made wild hand gestures at the guy operating the metal detector - while backing away quickly lest I contaminate him with my Scary Female Bodily Functions - and my still-empty uterus and I passed through without issue. Still not terrorists, and with far less wasted time and angst.
Charming just rolled his eyes at me and assured me I would have deserved it if the agent had thought I was eight months pregnant.
Unfortunately for Charming, I’m feeling like this might be the world’s longest gestation period. I look young as it is, so I’m thinking I should be able to pull this off until I’m at least 50 or so. Oh! I think my Civil Disobedience Baby just kicked!