The airport was surprisingly simple, though considerably bureaucratic. It seems to me that the real reason for all the extra security may be the government trying to solve the unemployent issue, given how many hands were on my person and luggage over the course of a half an hour. Laptop out, turn it on, turn it off again. Wave the magic wand across me. Etc etc etc. One nice thing I found is that my rings and belt no longer seem to trigger the metal detectors, which is great.

The strangest bit, though, was what we decided must be THE DEADLY UNDERPANTS CHECK ZOMG. The “suspicious” line is divided by gender. I assume this is for searching purposes, but no. When I am escorted to my female agent, she asks me to put my hands fully in my pockets. I comply, and then she says “Rub them up and down.”

To say this surprises me would be a bit of an understatement. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Rub them!” She put her hands on her hipbones and made a wiping motion up and down. I’m afraid I probably laughed but I complied, after which she swabbed my hands with some kind of chemical detector cloth, put it through the official-looking machine, and told me to move along.

Amanda didn’t get the same treatment. I guess the logic is that … women bombers wouldn’t be willing to wear bulky underwear? I mean, that’s all I can think of, when I try to think like a fear-obsessed bureaucrat. “Ladies love silky things and don’t want to ruin their figures, so let’s just check the Y-fronts.”

Not, you know, that I wear Y-fronts.