The TSA gave me a new rule.
Last week, when Chris drove me to the airport to begin my epic journey to Boston, we first had to get out of bed. And because the airport is only close to my house in the sense that you can get there via public transit if you've got a lot of free time on your hands, this meant we had to get out of bed at four o'clock in the morning. Not a happy or creative way to begin a Valentine's Day, really. But we soldiered on, emboldened by caffeine and keeping to our schedule. He dropped me at the airport more than two hours before my flight, we exchanged embraces, and I went off to face security.
Now, to get through airport security, you must first remove absolutely everything that could potentially, through any exciting twist of logic, be used to conceal a weapon or somehow obscure a cunning plan. This is even more fun at six o'clock in the morning, when the people around you have the physical coordination of squid on acid. Seriously, it's like trying to run naked relay races across a fishing boat. Eventually, all that flailing settles down, and people wind up with the correct number of limbs, shoving bins full of jackets, sweaters, scarves, hats, and shoes through the X-ray machine. (As the amount of time required for the flail has been decreasing steadily as people adjust to new regulations, I fully expect the TSA to start making us remove our pants sometime in the very near future. Because denim is a deadly weapon in the right hands.)
Being a very sleepy, sedate squid, I removed my outerwear with a minimum of fuss, and proceeded through the metal detector, which blissfully failed to beep. This is where I should note that the odd look directed towards me by the screener watching the metal detector really made no sense to me. This is also where I should note that I dressed myself almost immediately after the alarm went off, when I was still technically, by any objective measure, asleep.
I began collecting my possessions. One of the nice TSA gentlemen came over to talk to me.
"Miss?"
I blinked blearily at him.
He considered my sleepy, puzzled expression, and reached a conclusion. One which, thankfully, didn't involve a strip search. "Miss, did you drive yourself this morning?"
"No. I got dropped off."
"Did you select your own clothing?"
Now I was starting to get really confused. "Yes. Why?"
I think this is when the TSA guy realized I had absolutely no idea what I was wearing, because he replied with, "Look down."
I looked down.
I was wearing my bright orange 'The natives are restless' Resident Evil T-shirt. The one with the bloody chainsaw on the front.
"...oh," I said.
The TSA has given me a new rule. Specifically, when flying before ten o'clock in the morning, I am not allowed to dress myself.
Life is strange.
Now, to get through airport security, you must first remove absolutely everything that could potentially, through any exciting twist of logic, be used to conceal a weapon or somehow obscure a cunning plan. This is even more fun at six o'clock in the morning, when the people around you have the physical coordination of squid on acid. Seriously, it's like trying to run naked relay races across a fishing boat. Eventually, all that flailing settles down, and people wind up with the correct number of limbs, shoving bins full of jackets, sweaters, scarves, hats, and shoes through the X-ray machine. (As the amount of time required for the flail has been decreasing steadily as people adjust to new regulations, I fully expect the TSA to start making us remove our pants sometime in the very near future. Because denim is a deadly weapon in the right hands.)
Being a very sleepy, sedate squid, I removed my outerwear with a minimum of fuss, and proceeded through the metal detector, which blissfully failed to beep. This is where I should note that the odd look directed towards me by the screener watching the metal detector really made no sense to me. This is also where I should note that I dressed myself almost immediately after the alarm went off, when I was still technically, by any objective measure, asleep.
I began collecting my possessions. One of the nice TSA gentlemen came over to talk to me.
"Miss?"
I blinked blearily at him.
He considered my sleepy, puzzled expression, and reached a conclusion. One which, thankfully, didn't involve a strip search. "Miss, did you drive yourself this morning?"
"No. I got dropped off."
"Did you select your own clothing?"
Now I was starting to get really confused. "Yes. Why?"
I think this is when the TSA guy realized I had absolutely no idea what I was wearing, because he replied with, "Look down."
I looked down.
I was wearing my bright orange 'The natives are restless' Resident Evil T-shirt. The one with the bloody chainsaw on the front.
"...oh," I said.
The TSA has given me a new rule. Specifically, when flying before ten o'clock in the morning, I am not allowed to dress myself.
Life is strange.