By Lisa Smith Molinari

“Call me when you arrive, love you,” my husband, Francis, said, putting my carryon on the curb. Leaning in for a hurried kiss, he inadvertently hit my left nostril, before I scurried into the airport for my flight.

When I fly, I experience tiny panic attacks at each crucial step in the process. As soon as the double doors at arrivals closed behind me, it started. “[Gasp!] Where’s my boarding pass?!” It was in my purse, where I’d put it two minutes before.

I wheeled my carryon to the TSA check area and entered the maze of ropes intended to corral hundreds of passengers. However, Providence Airport was nearly empty, so I zig-zagged back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. One other woman giggled every time we passed each other. I almost mooed at her in mutual recognition of the ridiculousness of it all.

At the end of the maze, I faced a TSA official at a podium. “[Gasp!] Where’s my ID?!” It was in my wallet, as always. The photo identity confirmation happened so fast, I had no time to stretch my neck out to minimize my double chin. “Could we take another, this time on my good side?” I wanted to ask the TSA agent, but he sternly directed me into another cattle maze leading to the conveyor belts.

“[Gasp!] Should I take off my shoes?!”

“[Gasp!] Is there anything in my pockets?!”

“[Gasp! Where’s my laptop?!” Thanks to new technology, all I needed to do was fill two grey bins and head to the body scanner.

“Does this device register my weight?” I wondered. Before I could offer my regular excuses (e.g., “I’m retaining water,” “I have unusually thick hair,” and “menopause packs the pounds on”) I was told to retrieve my belongings. My two grey bins emerged from the scanner, but the one containing my purse was diverted onto another belt behind a plexiglass barrier.

“[Gasp!] Is it the grapes?!” This time, I hadn’t made the humiliating mistake of bringing a bottle of Miralax powder. During that trip, the TSA agents not only confiscated my very necessary bottle of stool softener, they proceeded to inspect every pocket, coin, sock, Chapstick and lint ball in my bags. They even had the nerve to pat down all nooks and crannies of my very crannied body.

“Is it the grapes?” I asked the serious woman assigned to search through my stuffed-to-the-gills purse.

“Nope,” she offered bluntly, digging deeper into the abyss. Another nervous moment passed before she pulled a zip lock bag out of the depths and announced, “It’s your fudge.” I’d forgotten about the sweets I’d packed for my trip.

Apparently, like Miralax powder, fudge looks very much like the elements used to create explosive devices or traffic illegal drugs. I guess the baggie of Rice Krispy Treats also hidden in the bottom of my bag didn’t make the contraband list.

After boarding my Southwest flight and selecting a window seat in the exit aisle, I snuggled up with my earphones in to listen to my Audible book and house a few Rice Krispy Treats.

“Ma’am!” a voice snapped me out of my sugar-induced travel trance, and I saw a flight attendant and several passengers staring at me.

“[Gasp!] Was my Security Screening photo so bad, they’ve confused me for someone on the international terrorist watch list?!”

“Do you consent to the exit aisle passenger responsibilities I just described?”

“Uh, yes, of course,” I said, having no idea what she’d described.

A few hours later, I was searching for my rental car at the Norfolk Airport parking garage.

“[Gasp!] Am I in the wrong garage?!” I panicked when I found a Chevrolet in spot A7 where my KIA was supposed to be.

“Not your car?” a woman wearing a fluorescent orange vest shouted from a kiosk, “Just press the emergency button on the key fob and follow the alarm!” Sure enough, my KIA was flashing, three aisles over in spot G7.

“I made it, Hon,” I telephoned my husband while driving down I-64, “but next time, remind me that fudge gets me in trouble.”