I’ve never liked to fly. But I do like the convenience, as I said in my post last week, of waking up in my own bed in Florida and having dinner in my all time favorite Mexican restaurant in Camdenton, Missouri.
I’m careful about using the word hate, so I won’t say I hate to fly anywhere, but I really have to think long and hard about whether the hassle of getting to and from an airport, getting ticked off every time I think I usually have to pay extra to actually take anything on the plane with me, feeling like I’m a cow being herded in the airport, unpacking and undressing, then repacking and redressing to get through TSA, and finally sitting for hours in uncomfortable chairs and seats with a good chance that something’s gonna go wrong.
I don’t have a naturally pessimistic countenance, but man, TSA fills me with negativity. On three of the last four flights my “groin area” “alarmed” and I was pulled out for the personal, hands-on pat-down. The morning of our return flight, as I got out of the shower and prepared to apply body powder, I suddenly thought that maybe the powder was the cause of the “alarm.” I didn’t apply it, and sure enough, breezed through TSA. Come on, man! We pay TSA to grope people who apply body powder after showering?
Convince me we still need TSA. Convince me they prevent what they’re supposed to prevent and save lives. Convince me the world is better off because TSA is so incredibly competent and necessary. Convince me: I dare you.
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