If my bra is a threat to national security, we're in big trouble
Source: http://www.canada.com/edmontonjournal/n ... 85&k=60485
Paula Simo
The Edmonton Journal
Published: Tuesday, November 20
"Bleeep!"
The airport metal detector makes that ear-zapping, high-pitched squeal.
I don't usually set off airport metal detectors. Most women don't. It's men who tend to make those door frames squeak. Men, with their metal belt buckles, their heavy watch straps, their pockets full of keys and loose change. I can't remember the last time I set off an airport scanner -- at least not in Canada.
Email to a friend
Printer friendly
Font:****But then again, I'm not in a Canadian airport. I'm on my way home from an American vacation, my first in more than a decade -- my first since 9/11.
In Canada, when you set off the scanner, a guard usually has you empty your pockets while waving the metal-detecting wand around you. Not in my case. Instead, the officer pulls out his radio.
"I need a female officer for a special search."
This doesn't sound good. I take off my watch and hand it over, attempting to head things off at the pass. I still buzz. And the squealing gets louder when the wand nears my bust.
"I'll bet it's my underwire bra," I grin, in what I hope is a disarming fashion. It's never set off a metal detector before, but I guess anything's possible.
The guard doesn't crack a smile. Instead, he beckons a lean, hard-faced woman with greying blond hair held back in a high pony tail. Next thing I know, I've been pulled out of the line, away from my family and escorted into a little low-walled room for a more intimate encounter. I stand there, a bit flustered, but still smiling.
"I think it's just my bra," I say, trying to strike up a friendly girl-to-girl rapport. She's having none of that. She escorts me to a special chair and runs the wand carefully over every bit of me. Then, she has me stand on a pair of footprints, outlined in white. She wands me again, and again, my torso sets the thing buzzing like an angry mosquito.
She eyes my bosom suspiciously. It's not the kind of ogling I'm used to.
I'm a robust 34 FF. That's the kind of full-figure that needs support akin to a good bridge truss. Over the years, my breasts have attracted their share of attention. Back when they were still perky enough to stand up all by themselves, they were generally considered quite distracting by the men of my acquaintance. But that was 20 years and 50 pounds ago. These days, I look more like a centrefold for National Geographic than Playboy, and my underwire is a wardrobe essential. Still, I never imagined my plunging cleavage could be viewed as a threat to homeland security. The guard puts down the wand and starts a thorough manual search. She doesn't ask me to take off my shirt -- though I'd almost rather she did.
See SIMONS / back of section
Instead, she slowly, methodically palpates every millimetre of my underwire, starting with the poky bits under my armpits, making her way around to my sternum, feeling carefully, one presumes, for suspicious lumps or gaps. Next, she takes my two breasts, one in each hand, and weighs them carefully, like a shopper trying to choose the right mangoes.
"Balanced," she mutters. "Nice balance."
1 2 next page