LAX, you have bested me but once!

I have discovered that my nemesis, the TSA at LAX have learned to be covert. I flew through security without a problem, arriving almost an hour early for my flight. In celebration, I took off my cover-up just to show LAX that I no longer fear nudity at the TSA's expense. No sir, I'll strip for free. I've gained weight over the past year, so it's nobody's dream come true - but that's just another slap in the face of TSA oversight.

I had a date Monday night in Arkansas. We were going to go to dinner and go dancing. My dream date. With a nice guy. Who dances. I was looking forward to it. And, somehow, the TSA knew. It knew so much that it did the unbelievable.

It caused mechanical problems on my flight. I had never expected the TSA to stoop so low. There I was, up since 5 to make sure I looked and smelled nice....but I was stuck. On the tarmack. Because these weren't ordinary mechanical problems. These were sneaky TSA mechanical problems. Our plane looked good - all indications to go - until you tried to take off...then the bells and whistles would tell you that wasn't such a good idea. So, here was my morning:

1. Get on plane after 30 minutes of waiting.
2. Pilot announces, "Mechanic telling us this is all resolved, folks. We'll have you in the air in about 15 minutes."
3. Wait 15 minutes.
4. Vroom. Jet engine ignites. We go faster and faster and.....
5. Engine shuts down.
6. Announcement: "Sorry, folks. We're still getting that warning light. We're going to be towed back in towards the flight deck for the mechanic to check us out."
7. Repeat steps 1-6 x 3 until...
8. Pilot announces, "We're sorry, folks. We're going to have to cancel this flight. We'll get our agents to work rerouting you. Sorry for the inconvenience."

At that point, I decided to cry. Not just a little cry - but a bit soul-felt, hyperactive, sobbing sort of crying. The kind of heartbroken crying that makes people hand you a kleenex and quote scripture. I met some lovely people who couldn't understand my story what for all the hiccoughing and snot-running and periodic wailing. But as they stood around me, I realized how much good exists in the world - and just how elusive romantic happiness remains for me....the combination of both facts made me cry harder, which, in turn, led to me gathering more kleenex and meeting more wonderful people.

I was rescheduled on an afternoon flight. I made the appropriate phone calls. Disappointment all around. Then I cried my way through the next stage of the flight - a flight that required 3 stops to get me to Little Rock. But I met more great people - a reverend from South Carolina, a lovely lesbian couple from Seattle, and a bushwacker who told me stories of his "wives" while he hit on me and probably lied about how important he seemed to be.

At 8:00 pm (4 hours after my planned arrival), the plane touched down in Arkansas. I turned on my phone to discover the TSA had yet another joke played successfully due to silly rules about turning off cell phones while in transit - my late plane was still going to be met by my once-hopeful date. DRAT! I had sobbed off all my makeup and then studied through red eyes for 9 hours on a plane. Did I look awful? Well - imagine a fat girl with puffy eyes and then draw your own conclusions.

I rapidly made myself up - it's difficult to hide bloodshot irises, so I planned to pretend I used drugs. Lots of hard drugs. It's as good an excuse as any. After all, I work in Hollywood and the guy googled me and found my online videos. I may as well play up the semi-slut angle of my Big Girl life. And it would have worked, except I had been kissed by the TSA at LAX. The kind of tongue-heavy French experience that lingers for days and days and days....it leaves an almost distasteful flavor that you think will disappear but returns at the strangest moments. Unsuspecting that I had received such a kiss, I walked out of the Arkansas airport, thinking my nightmare had ended when it had really only just begun...

The guy was nice. Very sweet. Accommodating. Interesting. Mildly amusing (I'm wittier as he quotes Internet jokes and puns). He took me to dinner since I hadn't eaten since 10 am. (Hard to eat when you're sobbing) In general, a fine time. We made jokes about how he paid 30 cents for parking - and I'd probably be worth a whole 50 cents under the right circumstances. So, thank you for your patience and it was nice to meet you.

And then we had a conversation about how he'd been accused of being a pseudo-dater - y'know, the kind of guy who ends up in murky territory with every girl he meets. He'd had one "friend" who was at his house every Friday and then he didn't understand why she had "the talk" with him after he took her to meet his family but didn't kiss her. Yep. Pseudodater. I gave him some pointers, important details like "make a decision and tell the girl by your 3rd hangout session - you're either friends or dating" and "don't meet the family until you've clarified your standing with the girl". Then I logged the information on his personality. Information that became useful quickly.

On Tuesday, he called to invite me up to his house for a musical interlude. We both sing. I went - well-aware that this was pseudo-dater terrritory and with the strangest atmosphere of airport hovering around me. I was tired but it was fun. I never expected the TSA had already left its daily deposit. There was this odd smell, literally and not metaphorically - so I went to the restroom to check. There on my pant leg - behind my right calf: my nephew's diaper had leaked on me while we played that morning. And there I was...on a date....covered in...

I don't know why I didn't make a joke of it all. I think it was just too much to realize the TSA at LAX had lingering power over my life. Here I was on yet another dream date - the sit around the piano and sing date. Even if the guy were just pseudo-dating, it should have been fun....but instead I was covered in...TSA residual sludge. I raised my fist to rue the day I had ever tempted the security personnel at LAX.

I've watched enough TV to recognize the emergence of an arch-enemy. At first, the flirtation with hatred. The TSA and I have gone several rounds. I've always come off conqueror. But then the archenemey discovers the hero's weakness. TSA had found mine - as I sobbed hysterically to strangers in a waiting area, I revealed myself. I am paralyzed over impending romantic failure. And so, the TSA found my personal Kryptonite. And it was not afraid to use it.

Pseudo-dater came over for dinner on Wednesday at my sister-in-law's request. The offending jeans were in the wash. As I turned a corner, just before the door knocked, the TSA attacked. I ran into the oven and my jeans tore out at the crotch. I had few options - no pants or torn jeans. I felt the crippling sensation. Anxiety paralyzed my sense of humor. I threw on an oversized shirt - with the mocking of What Not to Wear reminding me what happens to fat girls in large clothing. I was gasping for air. The TSA was winning. I tried to let my love for people overcome the rigor mortis beginning at the vocal cords. I picked up my infant nephew and began to sing to him.....Bu-u-u-u-urp....my nephew spit up all down my back. Today, I would smell of vomit and the lingering odor of the TSA's icy breath exhaling over my vacation.

Throughout dinner, the TSA whispered horrifying nothings in the ears of my family. This was the third date and he had met the family. Not a person could resist overgeneralizations. I felt my face burn. The heat made the vomit stench worse. Every time I stood up, I had to tug down my shirt to cover a hole widening with each movement. I wanted to cry. I paid for dinner instead. Hell - the guy shouldn't have to front money for this disaster. It would be like asking passengers to pay double for the train that will be running headlong into their car and killing everyone on board.

The rest of the night was a blur of self-disappointment and fear. I fought. I did. But it takes time to overcome one's weakness and I don't get no funky high off a yellow sun. I was just trying to survive. Thanksgiving went much the same. The guy had been invited over by my sister-in-law who adored him from the first day they talked. I told my family that he was not into me - he was just a pseudo-dater with nowhere else to go this holiday. He never sought me out after the ____y experience on Tuesday. He didn't particularly pay attention to me. And I had to be on the lookout for the next attack by the TSA. So, I stayed in the kitchen wearing dirty, stained (but not smelly) jeans and making rolls that turned out bland and rubbery Jell-o. I reassured myself that I had done my best. I was still breathing. The TSA was out of ammunition for the time being (more likely, had withdrawn to plan future attacks after successfully destroying my Thanksgiving romance) and I was still standing and not currently covered in any socially inappropriate bodily fluids. Now - if only I could have stopped my family from making less-than-veiled references to our Happily Ever After - and, possibly, not turned bright red when my parents called and I had no idea how to introduce, "The guy who's not into me but may like my sister-in-law, but to whom I am being offered as obligation for dinners served." I felt like a dying guppy who kept splashing into the puddle just before the blessed last molecule of oxygen was expended but then, in glee at the return of breath, flopping back out of the puddle and into despair only to repeat the process over and over again.

As we packed for the airport, I cried again. I think the TSA almost felt sorry for me. We had a non-eventful security check and a quiet flight home. Even the TSA knows not to whip a hurt puppy, so I slept in relative peace as we crossed the country.

As for the guy, well, the funny thing is, I wouldn't have minded if he'd been into me or overcome the TSA assault. Not at all. Even though he's a punchline repeater (thanks to Bro-in-law for pointing that out) and he watches FOX news. Okay, that last one may have eventually been a deal breaker - for him, not me, because my beloved father is a Rush Limbaugh listener yet I've managed to love him anyway. So, all in all, it wouldn't have been too bad to have been that right person at the right time. Just not fated - and I hold LAX responsible. I need to remember to wear clothes I can burn immediately upon arrival at my destination. Maybe find a pack-and-carry clean room shower. If LAX can leave no trace on me, perhaps I will find freedom from its bad karma. Or, at least, I will find comfort in knowing that I have found my arch-nemesis and seek to avenge my dignity with every encounter.