WebCogito

Stop. Stay. Think.

For about a year, I had been fortunate to avoid the displeasure of air travel. Recently, a cross-country trip required that I fly Continental Airlines.

Part I: The security line.

I shouldn’t have bothered to wear a belt on my day of travel. I should have just stuffed it into my bag and pulled it out after I’d arrived at the hotel. And who did I think I was fooling with the belt, anyway? Did people really think that I needed one? I haven’t comfortably fit into my pants since I wore those diapers with that elastic waistband. And if you’ve ever wondered why many Texan men wear that big dinner-platter-sized belt buckle, it’s because that’s the only thing that can hold back that huge beer gut. Everything’s bigger in Texas!


I was embarrassed to remove my shoes. I hoped my fellow travelers, for their own sake, had come down with a bad case of cedar allergies. Better that their noses be clogged during this experience. The smell was such an issue that it caused the security guys some real concern. They couldn’t decide if they were supposed to put my shoes in the X-ray machine or in that bomb-sniffing machine instead. And even if they weren’t bothered by the smell of the shoes, my once-white-but-now-grayish socks probably offended them (one small, frightened child exclaimed: Mister!, there’s a scary rat crawling on your foot! Oh wait…it’s your sock) But at least I wore socks, unlike the poor girl behind me who had to walk across that grimy floor in her bare feet. Well, at least she made the custodian’s job a bit easier.

I was also quite confused about the little sandwich baggie. Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to fit all my toothpastes and hair creams and roll-ons and face creams and visines into this tiny little bag – and all that stuff should fit “comfortably.” Comfortably? Yeah right. They fit about as “comfortably” as Oprah fits into her slacks. And the whole time I was fretting that some super-observant TSA agent would notice that most of my little containers were actually 3.5 ounces rather than the maximum-allowed 3 ounces. Would I be forced to drain out that extra half ounce? Luckily, I made it through without being busted.

But damn, that ham sandwich that I packed alongside all my gels sure tasted crappy.

Coming tomorrow: Part II: The layover in Newark.