Nowadays a plane traveler never knows when hours might be spent hunched over an uncomfortable metal airline terminal seat waiting for a plane to load and take off. Or they might nestle comfortably in a tight plane seat, only to stare out the window at the runway for what seems an interminable amount of time as mechanical, weather, or other issues force a delay.
Or a globe-trotter might be stranded in a city between flights. The initial flight cancelled/delayed/aborted/hijacked/hit by a strike – whatever – a place to wait out the hours and rest their weary body must be found.
Or a passenger might be subject to a TSA pat down.
I recently flew a one-hour flight to Boston, and dressed for travel in what I thought was a practical outfit – loose fitting pants, T-shirt, and long-sleeved top. The outfit had small rivets/snaps/studs (not sure the official name) on the pants and blouse.
The airport security line was short and moved quickly. After taking off my shoes, belt, long-sleeved shirt and a couple of bracelets, I threw my backpack on the conveyor belt, walked into the scanning machine, set my feet on yellow footpads and placed my hands over my head. A couple of seconds later I walked out.
A TSA agent quickly strode forward, motioning me over to him, and told me to stand on a second set of footpads.
My outfit had set off warning bells. I didn’t hear anything, but the agents saw and heard the alarm and did not waste time grabbing me.
A second TSA agent stated that I would be subject to a search for anything illegal – drugs, bombs, money, food, anything that appeared suspicious. A woman agent strode over and gathered my belongings – backpack, belt, jewelry, shirt, shoes. We moved over to the side of the room. I could request a private space, she informed me, but I decided it was unnecessary.
The woman explained exactly what was going to happen. She would pat down my entire body, including my breasts and inside my thighs. She donned gloves and proceeded to check me out, one section of my body after another. The indignity of the exercise did not last long. I was not hiding any contraband. Nothing was hidden in my undergarments or sewn into my clothes (the last time I sewed anything was when pregnant with my first child decades ago).
When the examination was finished the woman explained that, in the future, to avoid another similar episode, I should wear the ‘in’ outfit for today’s savvy traveler:
”…Stretch pants and a plain T-shirt,” she explained.
I can wear the T-shirt.
A vision of me in stretch pants, my butt butting out too far, crossed my mind. At home, maybe.
Stretch pants in public, I don’t think so.
