Sistah Diaries

Finding the humor in chaos

The TSA agent with the blue gloves was surprisingly gentle

Even though it’s been a couple years since I’ve flown, I remembered the airport security routine and I was ready! A long time ago I learned the key to passing through the metal detector with flying colors – ditch the jewelry and wear yoga pants (no zippers or pockets).

I was instructed to step into the vertical coffin and place my feet on the yellow marks. As I held my hands over my head like the alien outline in front of me, I briefly panicked. Had I worn a bra with an underwire? Then I chuckled to myself. I ditched those torture devices back in my 30s. I was golden.

You can imagine my surprise when I exited the glass chamber and was told that an object was detected. What could it possibly be? There was absolutely nothing to detect.

I turned around to where the TSA agent was pointing to an outline of a body and there was a square over “my area covered by a swimsuit.”

I was horrified. Did I get a piercing there and forget? No. Was I pregnant and my kid already had fillings? No. Had I gotten tequila drunk on my way to the airport and stopped off to quickly get vagazzelled? No. (Unfortunately, I was stone sober.)

The male TSA agent handed me over to a female TSA agent. She explained that THE TIE ON MY YOGA PANTS was the issue, and that the screening was for metal AND for other objects.

Seriously? The tie on the waistband of my yoga pants was deemed a threat? What was I going to do? Rip the drawstring out of my yoga pants and strangle somebody?? Please. That was way more work than I was interested in. All I wanted to do was get on the plane, so I could start downing my complimentary wine.

But no. Lady TSA Agent and I had a date. She explained to me that she was going to rub down my waist, my “buttocks,” and my “crotch.” Geez, could she at least buy me dinner and a drink first? All this heavy petting without so much as asking me where I’m from or what I do for a living? Her game really needed some work. The most she did was ask me if I wanted a private screening room. I shrugged and said I didn’t mind receiving a public fondling if she didn’t mind giving one.

And so it began. She felt my waist, then told me she was rubbing down my butt “with the back of her hands,” (as if that is somehow less awkward) and then shoved her hand right up my lady parts and down my leg. If I were still single, maybe I would have asked for her number. But alas, it was not to be between the blue-gloved seductress and myself. I’m not single, and my poor fiancé was left struggling with the 30 electrical devices I had to run through the xray machine, that were now dangling off the conveyer belt and annoying the people behind him. He shot me a look that said, “Quit playing around and come help me.” I passed “inspection” and bid my new un-girlfriend good-bye. Did her blue glove linger on my thigh for just an extra moment? I can’t be certain. But I swear she held my glance a bit longer than was appropriate as I turned to help my fiancé.  

Here’s what I learned from the situation – when going through airport security, it is best to be nude. If yoga pants are a threat to our national security, then nothing you wear is safe. Also, being nude will make it easier for the TSA agent to probe your “areas covered by a swimsuit” when she has to perform her Orange Is The New Black cavity search.   

Feature image by Jose Gil/Shutterstock
Kat Hobza

Kat Hobza

Festis and Festina's mom, Mateo's lady-friend, web mistress, mediocre fly-fisherwoman, sub-par golfer, brilliant dancer, expert whiskey drinker, professional smart ass and Media Empress/HBIC at
Kat Hobza

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