Why I don't like metal detectors.

I've been having this strange itch to write -- maybe some post-NaBloPoMo effect -- but since my life has been mostly depressing and/or horribly mundane, I'm pulling out classic hits from the volumes of "Embarrassing and Humiliating But At Least I Can Sort of Laugh About It All Now" stories that have riddled my life.

So I'm going to tell you the story about why I have a strong dislike for metal detectors, the Transportation Security Administration, and sadistic airport security officers.

I'm not sure if you've quite picked up on this yet, but I was a bit of a wild child in college. I was sort of notorious for my drinking binges, and for doing insane things that would become stories of legend that I would have absolutely no recollection of. One thing that always vexed me about living in a college town was the fact that directly next to my favorite bar was a tattoo/piercing studio. I know most studios have signs (and laws) about refusing service to the intoxicated. This particular studio, however, apparently had a really lax policy on these things, because I have photos of people quite literally carrying me into this place, and waking up the next morning with metal shoved into places that I really had best not say.

Basically... you name it, I've had it pierced. This includes -- especially includes -- places that would be covered up by a bathing suit.

Going hand-in-hand with my four-year stint of alcoholism was my sorority membership. A year after I was initiated, my charm, charisma and ability to drink loads of alcohol without dying led to me being elected chapter president, and along with the title came various necessary cross-country trips to the international headquarters, to conventions, and to weekend leadership retreats.

It was a muggy summer when it was time for the international convention. Along with the chapter president of a nearby chapter, I was traveling along with my sorority advisor and several women of the alumni chapter. These older "sisters" were old school -- we're talking, classy and shit. Would get uppity if I said the Lord's name in vain, would lightly dab their foreheads with their kerchiefs, and would declare things in Southern drawls like, "Why I do declare!" They were uppity. And it was important, for my chapter's sake, to stay on good terms with them, so I arrived at the airport to meet them in a nice, crisp pressed cotton skirt and a cardigan set, kitten heels, and pearls. Shit you not. I don't even believe I did it. But relations and good-standing were important, so I had to dress -- and act -- to impress.

It came time to go through security, and I didn't even think twice as I put my adorable carry-on bag, shoes, purse and earrings through the scanner. And I passed through the metal detector without even a bead of sweat of concern.

EENH! EENH! EENH!

Oh. It might have been my necklace. Here, let me take that off. Back through the gate.

EENH! EENH! EENH!

That's when I realized what it must be. I thought it wouldn't set detectors off? Seriously? Is this happening? By this point, the stuffy old ladies are looking curiously behind me in line as I giggle nervously about what on earth could possibly be setting it off. I tried one more time in vain...

EENH! EENH! EENH!

It was at this point, in front of the sorority elders, that I had to quietly explain to the officer -- who looked quite unamused -- that I had some piercings that I wouldn't be able to take out right here and now. I still remember the completely unchanged expression as he guided me to the side where a female officer was waiting, and he said very loudly, "She has some piercings, she says."

Then, in front of the sorority elders, who were aghast at this point, the female officer patted me down and scanned the magic metal detector wand over me as it BEEPED tellingly as she passed it over my breasts, belly, and yes, my crotch. The elders were making a deliberate effort not to stare, but it was obvious they were looking out of the sides of their eyes, as I fought the urge to just scream, "YES, I got drunk and pierced my nipples and my clit, OKAY?!"

Things were quiet and awkward when we sat on the plane, until the one advisor I would have never expected sat down next to me, as I was fighting back tears, and said, "Well, that was embarrassing, eh?" I nodded solemnly. And then she pulled down her refined, obviously-expensive Neimann Marcus sweater (despite being July), and showed me the rose tattoo right smack on her right breast.