Relax — don’t get your knickers in a twist

Randi Kreiss

Once upon a time (actually it was 1968, but it might as well have been once upon a time), my brand new husband and I traveled to Bermuda for our wedding trip. I wore the standard travel outfit: a dress and matching coat ensemble, white high heels, pastel gloves and a straw hat. My husband wore a sport coat; he carried his two favorite Swiss Army knives in his pocket and a fishing knife in his molded plastic carry-on.

Our mothers walked us to the door of the plane (it was, after all, our honeymoon, and they had trouble letting go). And yes, walking onto the plane was just that. We dropped our luggage at the counter, walked to our gate and stepped onto the airplane.

Fast-forward 42 years. Two weeks ago, going to Florida, we stood on a security line for 35 minutes; in the process, we displayed our boarding passes and photo IDs to three different security officers. As we approached the metal detectors, we removed our shoes, as required. Then we took off our jackets, emptied our pockets and put all our metal belongings in a tray. My husband, who has a defibrillator, requested a pat-down, as he must, because the scans and detectors might set off his device and shock him. We didn’t know it was the first day of the “new” Transportation Security Administration pat-down rules.

The TSA agent proceeded to move his hands over and around and up and into various parts of my husband’s body. I watched as this strange man touched my husband in places not visited by too many people. We both felt embarrassed.

Then, last week, all hell broke loose, as various horror stories about the searches played out in the newspapers and on TV.

What I have to say is: Get over it. The 21-year-old girl who traveled to Bermuda in her dress ensemble doesn’t exist anymore, and neither does the world nor the culture in which she lived.