Dear Kid,

I’m back in an airport. This time Newark, NJ. I tell you this not because I think you will be jealous (although you are, right?) but because you should know I’m now engaged.

I got to the airport really early as I’d been warned about the horrors of waiting in liiiiiiiiiiine for Newark airport security. Also because I couldn’t sleep so it was a choice between hanging around the room watching homes I’ll never buy in Hawaii (HGTV really dangles some amazing things) or going to the airport and sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable seat.

It was a toss up.

Since I got to the airport 14 hours and 32 minutes before they were scheduled to board our plane, I breezed through security even though I didn’t have the handy dandy TSA precheck designation.

To clarify, I breezed through the part where they check ID. Despite my undercaffeinated state. I considered this an excellent omen.

Getting through the xray-security part was a little slower, but still NBD. I had to take off my shoes, but I’d cleverly worn boots that came off easily. No sweat. The TSA agent and I exchanged hair compliments as I waited for my stuff to go through the conveyor belt machine.

“Step right here, ma’am. Put your glasses on. On. Put your glasses on please.” Apparently, residing on top of my head is not “on.” I think I can be forgiven my confusion. “Put your hands over your head. Thank you.”

Machine noises.

“Please stand right there ma’am.” He pointed to a mat with two yellow footprints a few steps away from the machine.

Now, on the flight here, I set the scanner off and an agent felt up my left bicep before sending me on my way, so I didn’t worry.

This time was different.

The agent showed me the image. Basically everything except my eyelashes set off the machine. The image was a mass of yellow blocks. The agent explained she’d have to pat me down. Ok. She asked if I wanted a private room. (That should have been a clue about the up close and personal nature of what was about to happen.) Afterward, instead of offering me a cigarette, she swabbed her gloves and my hands to check for nasty residue. There wasn’t any.

I didn’t get a ring, but I’m pretty sure we’re engaged after that intimate an encounter.

Speculation from the agents standing around dropping ones onto the floor was that the sparkly threads in my sweater set off the alarms.

Good to know.

Love, Mom