I like joking. I think I have a reasonably good sense of humour. It’s fun to share a joke even with a stranger, like at the supermarket check-out; it’s an opportunity to brighten each other’s day.
Ever since fears about terrorism have been so widespread in the U.S., airport security checks there have become very serious and very thorough. Homeland Security does not allow joking. There are even signs posted to that effect.
Since my February surgery, by which I gained two new titanium hips, I have a new relationship with Security. It’s a very predictable one. I set off the alarm as I go through the check point each and every time. I say to the inspector, “I have two metal hips,” or some such statement, and then I’m asked to wait for the female Security Inspector. She’ll sit me down so she can check the bottom of my feet. Afterwards I stand so she can pass her wand over my hips and other body parts. Before my bionic hips, I never knew that a bra with underwires could set off an alarm. This entails a further check by hand. This stranger, with whom I cannot joke about the experience, pats me down in places that I or my husband are usually the only ones allowed to touch.
As Daniel and I traveled recently on domestic and international flights, I encountered quite a few friskers, briefly and up close and personal. I suppose I should be glad that airports and airspaces are guarded so carefully.
Come to think of it, it was rather unnerving when I traveled to Indonesia in May and I didn’t set off the security alarms.