The Naked Scanner
I craned my neck to see around the long line of people waiting to go through airport security at Logan Airport in Boston and hoped that when my turn came, I would be waved through the metal detector instead of having to go through the “naked” scanner.
As luck would have it, I was directed into the glass enclosure, instructed to place my feet spread-eagled on the painted shoe prints on the floor, and to raise my hands, stick-’em-up style. Seconds later, I exited the machine on the “sterile” side of the security area, happy for that bit of humiliation to be over.
Immediately, a security guard blocked my path, pressed her earpiece deeper into her ear, like 007, and nodded to the voice, I assumed, of the person who’d just seen me naked.
“Raise your hands, please,” the guard said. “I have to scan your upper arms.”
What? But wait… I was wearing a tank top. What could I possibly have been hiding—on my bare arms?
Resistance was futile. I rolled my eyes, raised my hands and submitted to the nonsensical scan.
After declaring the sagging fat on the underside of my upper arms free of weapons of mass destruction, she told me to have a nice day, and waved me onward.
At that point, I had a choice: Get mad and let it wreck my day, or laugh it off and add it to my arsenal of stories about weird or funny things that have happened to me. I chose the latter. What choice would you have made?
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