I have plenty of time before my flight, so I search for an empty table at the cozy, dimly-lit, seat-yourself restaurant inside the airport.
I plop down at the first vacant table I see. I’m not excited over the menu options of grease in various forms, to be washed down with expensive beer. It doesn’t matter. I have a spot to decompress after my search and seizure experience. My new metal hip had set off the TSA alarm as I traversed the security check. I was suddenly surrounded by TSA agents barking, “Stop. Take your shoes off. Kleenex? Out of your pocket.” So much for my pre-check status.
