Pride Goeth . . .

Greetings, WYMOP fans!

Constant WYMOP readers will know I’ve been out of town for a while, visiting with SB in Colorado. Last week I chronicled my little jaunt through Logan International Airport in Boston, where I narrowly managed to escape without marrying one of the TSA agents. If you missed it, you can check out that little adventure in my post, Safe and Secure. Suffice to say I think it was fun for somebody, but not for me.

That was last week. Last night I came home.

Now, I won’t tell you all about the boarding agent at Denver International Airport who stayed on the PA system giving friendly—but non-stop—digs to all the Patriots fans on the flight until even us non-football fans wanted to kick him in the squackbag. I won’t go into detail about the tiny Chinese woman who sat next to me on the flight, shouting to her husband in the next row in Cantonese (or was it Mandarin? I get those confused) who managed to whack me in the face with her big, puffy jacket when she took it off. Then when she put it on. Then again when she took it off. Then again when she put it on to deplane. I developed a twitch that looks a lot like a duck-and-cover, but I’m not here to tell you about that.

I’m here to tell you about going through security.

With my last experience with airport security having been so much fun (See? You really ought to go back and read Safe and Secure), even after trying my best to give the TSA agents nothing to worry about, I was more than a little concerned. I was still wearing cargo pants (they’re the most comfortable pants I own, dammit!), and though I went through my pockets time and again, putting everything I could into my checked bag, I couldn’t help but notice I was approaching DIA security in much the same state I had been in on my way through Logan International. In fact, it was identical but for the nervous butterflies beating the crap out of me from the inside.

I said goodbye to SB, flashed my ID and boarding pass, then lined up my two bags and three trays—one for my belongings, the others for my laptop and chromebook (yes, I’m one of those asshats)—on the conveyor belt for the X-ray machine. I assumed the position in the bio-scan booth, the scanner whirred around me, I stepped through to the other side . . . and was promptly asked to step aside with one of the TSA agents.

Oh, God, I thought. Here we go again!

But no! Unlike my last journey through an airport security process, which included a fair amount of testicular discomfort, this patdown was brief and professional. There was nothing either over-friendly or assaultively invasive about it. Before I knew it, I had been pronounced explosives-free (yet again) and was striding over to claim my belongings!

Also unlike my last trip through the TSA two-step, I wasn’t the only one being randomly checked. Three other people had been pulled aside, though they had apparently opted for the “private” screening—if you believe “private” constitutes standing about fifteen feet away from the rest of the crowd, in full view of everyone.

Ha, I thought, slipping into my shoes and threading my belt back through its loops. I think I’m really getting the hang of this! I kept one eye on the three still being patted and prodded and questioned as I stuck my wallet and phone back into my pockets and quickly stuffed my chromebook and laptop into their sleeves within my backpack. I envisioned walking past those three looking cool and collected to their flustered and sputtering; the experienced and in-control jet-setter to their obviously novice travelers. I shouldered my pack and started for the stairs that lead to the terminals, choosing a route that would bring me, strutting just slightly, right past the trio of poor bumpkins.

A sudden whistle cut the air, sharp and loud as any big city resident flagging down a taxi in rush hour traffic. I stopped, surprised, glancing in the direction of the sound—to see SB, standing on the upper level, leaning on the rail overlooking the security checkpoint. Seeing she had my attention, she thrust a finger back toward the end of the conveyor belt . . . and my carry-on, right where I’d left it, alone and abandoned-looking.

Ah.

When I sat down to write this, I checked the thesaurus looking for a better word than the one that occurred to me at this part in the narrative, but I really couldn’t find one; I slunk back my lost and lonely bag and, with all the casualness I could muster, hooked it up and offered a wave of thanks to SB. It was with a decided lack of strut that I made my way past the other bumpkins to the stairs leading down toward the terminals.

I do this two or three times a year; maybe, someday, I’ll get it right.

Talk to you later.

*********************************************

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Safe and Secure!

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Pick up my bag. Shuffle forward. Put my bag down.

Pick up my bag. Shuffle forward. Put my bag down.

Take off my shoes.

Yup, I’m at the security checkpoint at Logan International Airport on my way out of town.

Mom just dropped me off plenty early, I’ve already checked my other bag, and I did a digital check-in yesterday so I walked in the building with my boarding pass in hand. This security checkpoint is pretty busy—we’re packed in a little bit like cattle—but they’re moving right along, passing people through with no bottlenecks. A woman two spaces ahead of me in line walks through the metal-detector while wearing a chunky, silver bracelet bigger than my belt, with charms rattling on it the size of dinner plates. I see it and hear it, and I’m at least fifteen feet away. The TSA agent working the machine just gives her a friendly smile and waves her through.

Wow, I think. This looks like it’ll be my easiest flight yet.

My carry-on and computer bag (read: backpack) are on the conveyor belt, along with my three trays—one for everything not keeping me decent, the other two for my laptop and chromebook, each needing their own little cart to go on the ride. I wait my turn to go through the bio-scan booth (I never go through the metal detector, for some reason) with nothing but my socks, pants, underwear, and shirt. Oh, and a smile. Always with the reassuring smile.

“Please step over here, sir.”

One of the TSA agents running the bio-scan machine is motioning me off to one side, out of the flow of traffic. It’s not a problem, I was expecting this. The most comfortable pants I own are some fairly thin and loose cargo pants, and what with all of the pockets, it’s fairly usual for them to ask to either wand me with a metal detector, or—

“I’m going to pat you down, sir,” says the agent suddenly kneeling before me like he’s about to ask for my hand in marriage. “I’m going to go up and down your legs and over your pockets with the backs of my hands.” He holds up purple latex-gloved hands in example, then throws a thumb over one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer a private screening, sir?”

“No,” I say. “I’m good.” I widen my stance and spread my arms, assuming a rather starfish-like pose as all the other potential passengers look on, some even pausing in the collection of their belongings to watch until TSA agents give them the old “Move along, nothing to see here.” My suitor goes up the inside of my legs and groin, then down and up the outside, feeling all the pockets. When he gets back down to the ankles on the outside, I almost start to drop my arms and take a step, assuming we’re done here.

He goes right back up the inside of my legs again. He’s taking his time and being pretty squeezy about it, which strikes me as a little odd since all the pockets he’s worried about are on the outside of my legs, but before I can ask about that he starts—and I can only assume here, from what I felt—counting my testicles. The pants are, as I said, pretty thin and loose, and it seems to me it would be pretty easy to figure out what’s in there. But from the way he’s rooting around, and the amount of time it’s taking, I’m worried that the man’s having difficulty adding one and one to get two.

That’s when I realize that either my suitor has extremely double-jointed fingers, or he’s no longer using the backs of his hands in his search for testicular abnormality. Oh, wow, I think, was his suggestion of a “private screening” just his way of asking for a date? I’m about to ask if there’s a problem, when one of the other agents steps over.

“Sir? Is this your laptop?”

“Yes, why?”

He’s already turning away as my question warbles out, my suitor choosing that moment to give me a little extra squeeze. “I just want to take this over here and . . .”

Since he’s walking away, the rest of what he says is lost in the crowd noise of people walking through the scanning machines, collecting their gear and moving on. My suitor, whom I’m now thinking of as “Dr. Feelgood,” slides his hands down and back to the outside, this time skimming right over all those pockets he mentioned before he started checking me for hernias. His fingers slip inside the waistband of my pants, held up by nothing but some built-in elastic since my belt is off in a tray somewhere. He gives a little tug, and for just a second I’m afraid he’s going to pants me right there and check my prostate as well, and I regret not going somewhere a little more private.

Then I think I’m lucky I am in public—otherwise I might already be married to this guy!

“Sir,” says the good doctor, “I’m just going to run my fingers around the waistband of your pants to see if mrphl eraw gaganikuk.”

He’s leaned in to reach around behind me and become rather muffled, turning his head away so as not to get a facefull of what he’s already had a fistfull of—we hardly know each other, after all—and I am again about to ask if there’s a problem, but a third TSA agent appears beside me like a pop-up mannequin in a carnival haunted house.

“Sir, is this also your laptop?”

I glance down at the chromebook in his hands. “Yes, but that other—”

“I’m just going to take this over here and . . .”

Again, what he intends to do with my laptop is lost in the noise of everyone else in the world traipsing straight through security, weapons intact, because I’m hogging all the TSA agents. I open my mouth to call out to him, to ask What? And what? but nearly bite my tongue off instead as Dr. Feelgood decides to make sure I didn’t grow a third testicle while he was busy fiddling with my waistband.

Sigh.

Feelgood stands, finally, and I’d like to go see where they brought my stuff—you know, all those personal belongings they keep harping about on the public address system, telling you not to let them out of your sight, or be touched by anyone but yourself?—but we’re not done.

“Would you like to step over here, sir?”

No, I think, but I go, looking back over my shoulder to see if I can spot my stuff in the crowd. I turn back in time to see my new pal, Feelgood, holding up a swabbing paddle.

“I’m just going to rub this over your hands for a moment. We’ll try to get this done as quick as possible.” He starts swiping my palms with the paddle’s white collection surface. “Now what I’m doing here is—”

“Swabbing my hands with that in order to collect any trace elements left in the oil on my skin, which you’re going to run through that”—I nod my head toward the machine we’re standing next to—“to check for any trace of explosives.”

I probably shouldn’t have interrupted him, but I really just want to get back to my stuff—including my wallet, that’s still just sitting in a tray as far as I know—and I know the drill: this is the third time I’ve been checked for explosives in the past two years. Feelgood goes a little squinty at my interruption, though, and makes sure to swab between all my fingers, as well as the backs of my hands and wrists.

Like I’m going to be packing C4 into tubes or something with my wrists?

Finally the machine gives me the all-clear, and I’m able to bid my new friend goodbye. I’m good with that; it’s not like I want to send Dr. Feelgood a Christmas card or anything. I approach the conveyor belt to find my stuff just sitting there, still in trays, unguarded by a single person: wallet, glasses, shoes, laptop, and chromebook. My carry-on is there, but . . .

“Where’s my backpack?”

Then I see it, just making its way through the x-ray machine again. All the pockets are open, and when I fetch it I find all the contents shuffled. Obviously, while Feelgood was twiddling my nether regions and two other TSA agents were examining my laptop and chromebook, at least a fourth was rummaging through my books, editing binder, and Cliff bars, without even bothering to let me know.

So I move a few feet away to a handy bench to re-pack, re-dress, and re-think my day. In the end I’m smiling as I walk toward my gate. Oh, sure, I’m walking away confused, disheveled, and feeling just a little sexually molested, but look on the bright side: I’m explosives-free, and once again I avoided winding up in a small room smelling of sweat and fear, accompanied by a large begloved man wielding an even larger jar of lube.

I’m calling that a win.

And all this because I apparently fit the description of some guy called “Random White Male.” Weird, huh?

Talk to you later!

Safe and Secure

"You may be subjected to additional search methods."

That is the sign you see when you get to the security checkpoint at Logan international Airport.

Well, it's actually one of many, but I'm not concerned with the one about your carry-on size, or what you should be doing with your small bag of packed liquids. I'm only concerned with the "may be subjected to additional search methods" sign.

With me it seems there's no may about it. If you've been reading this blog as I've made past trips then know that experience has shown me that I should carry around my own sign that I could flash at Security: "I will be subjected to additional search methods!"

We've all been warned again and again that they pull people out of the line for "random" searches, and told that it has nothing to do with Racial Profiling. Well, I must just look every "random",  since I have been wanded, frisked, bio-metrically scanned, and once even tested for explosives residue.

I swear, if I lived out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but farms and cornfields, then I would have definitely been abducted by aliens by now, just so they could probe me in a nightmarish fashion before leaving me standing confused and alone, and feeling a little jellied in places, on a road in the middle of nowhere more than 100 miles from the place they picked me up.

That actually is a fear of mine. Not that I'll be abducted and probed by aliens, but by humans. The only thing left for the personnel of various airports to do to me is to pull me into a small room that smells of terror and violation, where the largest man I've ever seen snaps on a blue latex glove and tells me to try not to tense up.

It hasn't happened yet.

It's only a matter of time

So it was with all this in mind that I approached the Security Checkpoint at Logan on my way to the plane that was to take me to Colorado this morning.
What are they going to do to me today? I wondered. Is today going to be the big day?

The roped-off maze that the line is supposed to weave through was only half-full when it came into view. I started to step in and work my way to the back of the line, but I was stopped by a voice.

"Please step this way!"

My heart stopped and my head filled with visions of my tear streaked face in a small dark room, but all that happened was the security officer snapped one of the ropes from its stanchion and allowed me into a kind of short-cut corridor, right to the back of the line.

Wow.

At security I went right through. Stuff through the x-ray machine, me through nothing but the metal detector. I put my shoes back on and I was on my way!

Really?

After a short wait I went right on the plane, one of the earlier groups to board. I found my seat in the rear of the plane, an aisle seat next to two empty seats, the center and window. I waited as the plane continued to fill, and passengers took many of the seats around me. I kept waiting for someone to show up and make me move so they could get into my row. I waited until the plane door closed and we were taxiing along the runway before I believed it. I was the only one in the entire plane to have all three seats in my row to myself. No neighbors. Room to spread out.

Seriously?

Now, I had the easiest, most hassle-free flight I've ever had, but I just couldn't bring myself to enjoy it.

Why, you ask? Why did I have this blissful experience with JetBlue and the employees of Logan International Airport, and I couldn't just sit back and enjoy it?

Because I know. They're setting me up. Lulling me into a false sense of security. They're going to get me all happy and satisfied, as comfortable with traveling with them as I am sitting on the couch in my own home. They're going to get me to the point that I actually look forward to traveling with them, that as I'm driving to the airport I'm anticipating a wonderful, stress-free trip with wonderful people looking to my every whim.  And then ...

The room. The man. The glove. The terror.

I know it's coming. Oh yes. I know. I'm spending the return trip with my back to the wall.

Talk to you later!

The Friendly Skies?

Denver International Airport is set up a little differently from Logan. The ticket counters and check-in is on the upper level with the restaurants, while the Security Checkpoint is on the lower level in a two-story open air space. From the food-sellers you can look right down and see the roped off pathways that herd potential passengers to four or five inspection points. Usually that area is full of people, all hurrying to through to their flights; taking off shoes and belts traying things up to pass through the x-ray machines, trying to get themselves together on the other side of the machines and get out of the way for the people who are coming through behind them. From above, you can eat your pizza or burger, or even Chinese food while looking down on a scene reminiscent of a tipped over ant farm.
When I went through there at 10:30pm local time last night on my way from Colorado back to Massachusetts, it was a little different. The rope lanes were empty, and the only people to be seen down there were uniformed security personnel at the two inspection points they still had running. There were five people manning each station, and they looked bored.
Well, I thought, I'm either going to breeze right through here or these folks are going to make a training exercise out of me just to have something to do!
I made my way through the rope-maze completely unhindered. There were two other people trying to get through as well, and I simply followed one of them to the inspection station to my right. She let me go through first, so I pulled out all my electronics and fluids and tossed them in two trays, threw my shoes and jacket on the belt and started through.
"Sir, do you have anything metal in your pockets?" asked the guard just as I was about to step through the metal-detector. I checked.
Change. I had a few coins in my pocket.
"Not a problem, sir, please just step through here."
He was directing me through the bio-scanner that stood next to the metal detector.
"Put your feet in the yellow footprints and place your hands above your head please!"
I did so.
The woman running the machine declared me clear, and I stepped through to the secure portion of DIA.
The woman's partner, an slightly vertically challenged man began to bark at me.
"Sir, what do you have in your hand?"
I answered at the same time the female officer did, that I had coins in my hand, thus the bio-scanner.
"What is in your back pocket, sir!"
Now, there was no one there. We were in a big, empty space, yet this little man was shouting. Constantly.
There was nothing in my back pocket.
"There's something in your back pocket sir!"
"No, there isn't."
"There's something in your back pocket, sir!"
"He's wearing cargo pants," the female officer said. "It's just the shape of the pocket."
"He has something in his pocket! His left rear pocket! Your left rear pocket! Your left rear pocket!"
By this time I had  unbuttoned my left rear pocket and had my fist jammed in it, with my back to this Pocket Drill Instructor so he could see what I was doing.
There was nothing in the pocket.
He began to shout that he was going to pat me down. Shout, not say, or tell me. Shout. In this big, open empty space. I agreed immediately, but he continued to inform me. Loudly.
"I'm going to pat you down, sir!"
"Okay."
"I'm going to pat you down, sir!"
"Okay."
"I'm going to pat you down, sir!"
"Fine!"
"I'm going to pat you down, sir!"
He finally began to 'pat me down', which consisted of him rubbing his flat palm down my backside again and again. Like you would a cat.
He found nothing in my left rear pocket but my left rear. Apparently this did not make him happy. I didn't think my rear was that bad, but he seemed upset by it.
"Come here, please, sir!"
I went with the loud little butt-stroker, and we stepped up to another machine, one I had never seen before.
"I'm going to swab your hands sir!"
"Um... okay?"
He ran a piece of greenish paper over my right hand, and then shouted at me again.
"I'm going to swab your other hand, sir!"
The green paper again. Then he took the paper and stuck it in a slot in the machine like he was pushing a very thin bank card into a futuristic ATM.
 We waited.
I realized that this walking poster for Little Man Syndrome was checking me for explosive residue.
Are you serious?
It occurred to me that the only thing left was for me to wind up in that small room off to the side that I'm so afraid of, with Little Man snapping on a blue latex glove and shouting "I'm going to check your rectal cavity, sir! I'm going to check your rectal cavity, sir!"
I started to look for someplace to run to. He was little, and I was pretty sure I could take him, but that might not go over too well in a post 9-11 airport.
The light on the machine came up green.
"Thank you, sir, you can go!"
What?
"Have a nice flight, sir!"
I actually felt my sphincter unclench.  I finally went and collected my stuff and got the hell out of there, walking alone down to the train to the gates. No crowds, no bustle, just me.
Breeze right through or become a training exercise for bored security personnel?

"Hello, my name is Rob and I'll be your training exercise for this evening. Just let me take my shoes off and I'll read you the specials..."

Good God!

Talk to you later!

Danger Will Robinson!

So this morning I flew into Denver again. The last time I had a little trouble in security ... okay, actually I was laughed at, but I seemed like trouble to me! Did things go smoothly this time? Um... sort of. I mean, I didn't get arrested or anything. But I did have a few things go a little hinky for me.
This is one of them.

Going through security? No problem.
Almost.
I was all kinds of ready. Nothing on my pockets, my shoes untied for easily slipping them off and on. I wasn't even wearing my belt, but had stowed it in my carry-on. I pulled out my laptop, netbook and my new e-reader and slapped them in two trays along with my phone. I threw everything through the x-ray machine and I walked through the metal detector without a hitch. I walked to the other side of the machine and waited for my stuff to come sliding out toward me.
And I waited.
And waited.
I looked over at the lady who was running whatever the scope is called that allows them to see through your luggage and check the general cleanliness of your underwear. She was looking through the scope into the bowels of the machine (I just constructed that entire sentence around my desire to use the word 'bowel' in a blog!), both hands up cupping the sides of her face to block out ambient light and allow her to see better.
She called another security officer over, and he took a look. Again with the cupped hands. They then waved over a third cuppy-handed individual, and he took a look.
They were all looking at my stuff, still in the machine. I began to have visions of myself huddling in the corner of a small room that reeked of stale sweat, feces and fear, trying in vain to cover my self as a large man stood over me with one upraised finger, like he had a bright idea. That finger, in my little vision, was slathered with petroleum jelly. I heard, heard the man say "Now, I'm not going to lie to you here. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me!"
I was just starting to look for a good direction to run when the conveyor belt shuddered to life and the machine began to vomit out my belongings like a kid with no self-control the day after Halloween. I started to grin foolishly and grabbed my things. I slapped the shoes on my feet, tucked all the electronics away, and was about to pull out my belt and put it on when a large man wearing a security uniform came around the corner and hustled toward the security checkpoint.
As he went by, I could swear I saw Vasaline on his forefinger.
He was definately  already wearing blue latex gloves.

I left the belt in my carry-on and I ran for my gate!

Talk to you later!

Duct Tape Can Fix Anything... Almost.

Flying Denver Colorado to Boston Massachusetts:

4:15 scheduled leave time

4:00 boarded plane

5:15 disembarked plane (still in Denver)

6:00 boarded new plane

6:34 Liftoff! Followed by 3 hrs 50 minutes (estimated) in the air.

The reason? The plane broke while we were sitting there on the runway.

As we were waiting to get off the ground in the first plane, a couple of maintenance men came on the plane. Two of them. One of them knelt across that aisle from me and put a piece of tape across the emergency lighting that lines the walkway. Like Christmas lights in the floor. The second man stood and watched, unspeaking. The Captain got on the overhead.

"This is the Captain speaking. You may have noticed a couple of maintenance men boarding the plane. It seems that we have a broken lens cover in the emergency lighting. It's keeping some of the lights from working. You can see up here at the front of the aircraft that the lights are working perfectly, while there is a dark section on your left in the middle of the plane. Regulations require us to cover the lens with some special tape. Once this is all set we can fill out some paperwork and we can be on our way."


Yup. Christmas lights. One light goes out, they all go out.

The one maintenance man finished with the tape, which I could see clearly, and looked suspiciously like duct tape to me. He and the other guy, who didn't do anything but watch, who didn't even carry the tape, trooped out of the plane. I can only assume that the 2nd guy was supervisor, and like my own supervisor, doesn't do anything visible but claims to be an expert in all things related to the job.

About 25 minutes later we were informed that the plane we were on was unfit to legally fly, and would be left where it was on the tarmac as we disembarked and hiked down a few gates to where we would be boarding another plane, which would be arriving in approximately 30 minutes.

They should have sent three guys with the duct tape.

I've been traveling for like 8 hours, I need some sleep. 

Talk to you later!

Logan on a Monday

Hello from Colorado!

Okay, I was at Logan this morning, flying out here, and I was struck by just a few thoughts.

• People with small children - Security at Logan is the perfect place to take your child if they are learning how to dress; they have plenty of examples to follow. Everyone's either tying their shoes, putting on a belt, etc. And some of them are doing it in such a hurry that you have examples of what not to do. "See that man there? The one who is walking funny? Look closely, you'll see his shoes are on the wrong feet. Don't do that."
• The sign in front of the big bio-scanner, that you can read as you approach the machine, is not explicit enough. "Stand with your feet in the footprints on the floor. Raise your hands so they are above your head, palms facing out." It's so confusing! It should mention that the footprints on the floor by the sign are just a mock-up, and you don't actually have to do that until you you are in the machine. While I was there some poor bastard stood in the mock-up footprints, outside the machine, hands raised and waiting for the all clear. Quite a few people were laughing at the guy. Luckily one of the security personnel came and asked him to repeat the maneuver inside the machine.  So I did. Thank you TSA Agent Darla. I appreciated it.
• Anhidrosis is not a great thing to have on a plane (For more on Anhidrosis, please see my entry titled "No Sweat, No Problem... Not Really!"). Plenty of bodies in a steel tube, no dearth of body heat. Thank god for that little personal air thingie. It's a life-saver. Especially when you're bald. Quite the little rush!
• There is no farting on a plane. See above paragraph on anhidrosis. Steel tube. 'Nuff said.
• Lastly, a flight seems to be different things for different people. For some people it is a chance to get to know your neighbor, to make a new friend, to be social. For others it seems to be a time for looking straight ahead and not talking and never making eye-contact with the people around them.  The guys reading this will understand if I say that for these people it's a little like spending five hours standing at the urinal in a public bathroom. No talking!

There was other stuff; the flight crew was a riot, I was napping and got a hell of a stiff neck. I was so visibly happy with the air thingie that I'm pretty sure the woman seated next to me thought I was special needs. I'd have asked her but she was one of the urinal people. No talking!

Well, that's all I have for today. Once again, thank you Agent Darla. Talk to you all later!
--------------------------------------------------------------

Colorado or Bust

So, tomorrow I'm off to Colorado for a week. Six days, to be exact. My plane leaves at about 8:30 am, which means I'm leaving to go to the airport at about 6:30 am, which is eight and a half hours from right now... and I'm not packed yet.
I'm pretty sure that of you are a woman and are reading this, then you just flinched, frowned, or had some other reaction to that particular piece of news. Every woman I know, my mom, my wife, sister, friends, would have been packed for about a week now. They might say they wouldn't, but they would have. What they mean is they're not finished packing yet. Almost. They'd have clothes, and some larger items all set; that book they've been meaning to read, probably some travel-sized toiletries packed in zip-lock bags for the flight, things they may be bringing to someone at the other end of the flight.
But what they wouldn't have done is the tweaking, the last-minute adding of the stuff that they simply can't add until right before they leave. Can't pack the toothbrush, or any medications, they'll need those in the morning. Favorite pair of jeans? Have to wash 'em first, they were worn just three days ago. Are they bringing a Nook, or a Kindle, or some other E-reader for the flight? Have to give it a last minute charge so it will last as long as possible for the flight...
But other than that, they'll have been done for days. That way they can go over and over the inventory in their heads again and again, obsessing over anything they may have missed.
I'm avoiding all that.
I got the bag out this morning and put it on my bed. Over the course of the day I washed every item of clothing I own that has been worn in the past week. Into the bag, from the pile of "cleanies" I put enough shirts, pants, shorts, socks and underwear to last me seven days. Plus a couple of extra shirts. Gone for six days but packing for seven? I know myself. I'm pretty sure at some point during the week I'm gonna mess up some clothes. I'll go fishing and wipe my hands on my shorts without thinking. I'll be eating pasta and realize that the warm feeling in my chest isn't the onset of heartburn, but hot meat sauce spattering my shirt and soaking through to the skin. I know I'll do something.
I have a small bag of travel toiletries I have from the last time I took a trip, a year ago. It's still packed. Into the suitcase it goes!
Now all I have to do is get together my electronics and their cords, and I think I'm good to go. Beard trimmer, phone, BlueTooth headset, laptop, and netbook. Add in two books, one that I'm reading to my son at night on the phone while I'm gone and one that I'll may need if my batteries die, and I'm out the door.
Makes some women sick. And when I find that I've forgotten something, they point out that I wouldn't have forgotten anything if I had just packed ahead.
Here's the thing: I know I would have forgotten something anyway. I always do. But I know that if it's something that I can't do without for a week, I can probably buy it there at a Wallgreen's, or a Walmart. And there's actually quite a lot that I can do without for a week.
Women hate that attitude.
Oh, I know of a man or two who might have been packed two weeks in advance. If you are reading this, then  you know who you are.
Sorry. Last-minute packing. It's all part of the trip!
Talk to you from Colorado!
...unless of course I wind up being randomly pulled out of line at a security checkpoint and thrown into a small room with two large men wearing latex gloves, a room that smells of desperation, perspiration, lubrication and penetration.That's not the kind of last-minute packing I look forward to.
Yikes!