Though I was technically born three days early, I’m chronically 15 minutes late - to appointments, to brunches, to dates - one might say tardiness is my signature scent. I’ll bat an apologetic lash and shrug a flirtatious mea culpa when sliding into the back pew at a wedding or dashing through a door at closing time. Rules, after all, were made to be broken.
While friends and family may forgive my rampant lateness, my behavior didn’t fly - no pun intended - with Logan Airport security last week. Despite being dressed appropriately (my mother would call it “sensible”; I call it “wearing my fat jeans”), I had packed lightly, and had arrived not only on time, but early. Yet somehow, I proffered suspicion to a latex glove-wearing auxiliary.
“Ma’am?” a voice called out. (I base it on principle to never respond to ‘Ma’am’ unless there’s a gun in my face.) Still, I turned with a wide, obligatory smile.
“Yes?” I croaked, spying a Starbucks just beyond the metal detector, my esophagus wheedling for an overpriced soy latte. I waited patiently, as if good manners would grant salvation and prevent me from missing my flight.
“There’s no outside food allowed past this point.” Confused, I looked around for flagrant pizza crusts and sultry bonbons that frequent the landscape of my apartment, when I noticed the gleam of plastic heralding from my purse. I’d forgotten that I’d packed enough Tampax for the weekend to last me through menopause. My homemade tampon variety pack blossomed from my bag like a bouquet of feminine hygiene; and to be honest, it looked stunning under the glare of those harsh lights, like a movie star on cue for a passionate kiss.
“This?” I asked, nudging my forefinger into the bag to indicate that I was merely packing period protection and not a Beretta. “This is nothing.”
“Ma’am,” the guard continued sternly, “I’ll need to search your bag.”
I sighed and him my purse. The crowd behind us started to whisper. I slinked back into my hooded sweatshirt as far as I could, certain that the curse of menses was scrawled across my forehead like a scarlet letter. I promised God that if he could just let my digital camera make it through this ordeal unscathed, my ass would be back in church every Sunday, Girl Scout dropout’s honor.
This is too funny. I get searched frequently although I think I dress sensibly and don’t look like a fugitive, drug dealer or terrorist. Except of course the time I didn’t have a photo ID. I called the airline several times to make sure it was ok and it was. This was the breeziest check ins I ever had. On the way to Ohio, last year, I asked directions of an elderly airport employee and he escorted me to the security gate. He told me a mom with a stroller shouldn’t be standing in line - and there was a long line - which included other moms with strollers. He took me to the security guard, flashed his badge and got me through and took me to an empty security check through. The second leg and the return trip were just as easy. Maybe my ID is soooooooooo bad it raises red flags ordinarily, making my social security card and bank card the better alternative?
its time to realize that 50% of the worlds population has a menstrual cycle and its time we all got over it. its just a bad habit we woman picked up somewhere along the way that we should be embarrassed about ourselves for existing….and along with existence comes our periods