Meet George Jetson

In a world where we are finally waking up to something that, gasp, feels the tiniest bit like normalcy, I bring you a years ago tale of me, the world traveler (not) who attempted to fly from Dallas to Houston.

Here’s the premise. Yes, I am a savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveler. Don’t look at me like that. What? Oh, dear. 1985 called? What did they say? Braniff wants their frequent flyer miles back? Ouch. Now, that hurts! Listen, I’m not complaining. I’m a rules girl. If it’s in the by-laws, I do it. Stop signs? Color me stopped. Deadline? Got it. Speed limit? No worries. And, those are my “safely on land” rules. My “up in the air” rules are even better. What with the ugliness and wickedness in the world, I not only agree with but applaud any and all airport safety measures. Again, regarding all airport safety measures, I am a huge fan. Still, though, for reals?

Here’s the prequel. I live in Dallas: the Big D, DFW, The Metroplex. I had to go to (drumroll) Houston! I was traveling on company time and funds, so who was I to have a list of demands? I was ELATED! Why, ‘lil ole me? Goin’ on a mahvelous trip? Why, I’ll just have the grandest ole time! I’ll buy all those cute little empty bottles and funnel my bougie shampoo and conditioner into them. I’ll take a week’s worth of books. A month ago, I started an outline of outfits: 1 for departure, 1 for each day, 1 for funsies, multiple pj options - you get the picture. I got a little out of control. Imagine that. Still, planner that I am, I packed, folded, and planned myself the perfect little work get-a-away ever imagined. Go me! And, for what it’s worth, the trip was amazing. The hotel was gorgeously appointed. For a newbie sales trainer wannabe, I felt like a Disney princess. The company seminars were informative. The speakers were inspiring. The training material was spot on. There were even free appetizers and wine, every night! My room had wood floors and granite countertops in the mini-kitchen. I felt as though my ship had finally come in! It came in, alright. Then, it sailed without me.

Here’s the comedy section. I had to come home. (Just wait, ok, it’s not funny YET). I finished the meeting. I changed into the “return flight outfit” per the outline tucked away in the side pocket of my suitcase. I called this the Goldilocks outfit: not too young, not too matronly, just right. My airport shuttle was early. I arrived at a nearly empty ticket counter. My exit was as smooth as buttah, until I got to security, that is. First of all, the agent tasked with clearing me to enter the security area misread my last name. I said, “Was that Moon?” She said, “No.” I said, “WRONG.” She said, “SAY WHAT?” I smiled and quadruple blinked my eyes (internal reset button). I squinched my nose up in my cutest, perkiest, Meg Ryan wannabe look. We started over. Disaster averted. Next came the bucket debacle. I used 3 buckets: 1 for jewelry and various/ sundry other metal objects, 1 for my tablet and phone, & one for my purse and carry-on. I mean, sure, it took me, roughly, a week to sort through the “what goes where,” and the frequent fliers behind me may have started throwing half eaten apples at me, like a really bad vaudeville performer. But, I got it done! That’s when I saw the monster, the body scanner. I’d heard about these evil torture chambers. If I survived the experience, I’d be likely able to talk to Martians and get radio stations through my fillings. Never fear, though, cause savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveling Dina is here. I smile (again), squinch my perky nose up (again), and quadruple blink my eyes (again). With a deep cleansing breath, I stepped into a Jetson’s living room gadget. It looked like Arthur Murray was held captive in there! I saw the huge yellow footprints. I stepped into them, prepping for a cross between the electric slide and the Rocky Horror Picture Show Time Warp. When my Jetson’s tube opened, I flipped around like I was about to do the 2nd Macarena and looked the security man in the eyes. He was not smiling back at me. His nose wasn’t squinched. He looked non-plussed, maybe even slightly irked?

Here’s the ending. Don’t wear designer jeans with crystalized, studded, super-shiny, back pocket flaps. Turns out, they show up on a Jetson’s body scanner quite similar to other small, rectangle shaped, mysterious metal objects – the kind where train robbers wear bandanas and say, “Stick ‘em up.” Also, when you see the group of security guys gathered in front of the monitor, DON’T LOOK! Your glittery, crystalized, metallic derriere looks like planet EARTH! Those two things that look like TWIN NORTH AMERICAS ARE YOUR POCKETS! YOUR BOOTY IS BIGGER THAN RHODE ISLAND IN REAL TIME.

This is the ending. The author hopes everyone understands and embraces her love for airport security. She also hopes you leave with these amazing insights: no one cares about your bougie shampoo and departure outfits. Pack sweats for the return flight. Also, most of the airport security team doesn’t even know about Meg Ryan. They never saw French Kiss. Until next time, thank you for flying in my friendly sky!