orange is not my color

I made it to the airport in time, returned the mini-van and checked my suitcase. I was sailing through the security line. Boarding pass -check, ID –check, computer out of bag –check, shoes off—check, jewelry off –check. Beep, beep, beep. The guy sent me back out to take of a little hoop earring that I wear in my left ear. I got that ear “double pierced” the day my Aunt Rita died fifteen years ago and I wear one of her little hoop earrings. Earring out—check, Nora having an internal meltdown over the thought of losing the earring and seeing her computer being banged around at the end of the conveyor belt –check. Beep, beep, beep. Hell, what could it be? I was wearing a tank dress, no shoes, no jewelry, no replaced hip, no pacemaker, nothing. I’m told to sit in a chair; I can hear my computer hitting the end of the belt—thwap, thwap. Someone yelling, “whose earring is this?” I have to wait for a female officer. With a wand. So in the middle of the bustle of three security lines I’m getting a good going over. And, I mean good. The Hokey Pokey with a metal detector. Right leg out, left leg out. Did I mention I was wearing a dress? Arms straight out, palms up. Beep, beep, beep. It’s my damn bra.
If you know me at all, that is really funny. I’m, umm, small. I’m what they kindly call “an almost A.” Try being 45 years old and shopping for appropriate underpinnings. The manufacturers either assumes someone my size is either a chubby preteen (no Strawberry Shortcake, please) or that I want to something padded and full of technology (dayglo sequined water bra, no thanks). Apparently my new bra is full of wire and lots of it. The security guard (after she did a hand pat down) commented, in a healthy voice that she’d never seen a bra set off the detector like that. Red faced I retrieved my stuff and ran to the gate.
I have a three-hour layover in Baltimore, but I’m not leaving the security area...not with my underwear on anyway.