I just took my wife Paula's mom to the airport. It's the first time she's had to fly alone, since she had total hip replacement surgery a few months back. The new hip is a sure be to set off the security metal detector every time, which guarantees my 85-year-old mother-in-law will get a pat down search every time. She doesn't seem to mind. I suppose she enjoys the attention.
It means, that while she's going through this process, as her designated escort, I get to stand and chat with the security agents. Today's frisking went on a while and the agent and I began to chat. He talked about the old days before he became a recovering alcoholic, when he'd get bombed before flying (maybe, I shouldn't use "bombed" in this context). He'd occasionally end up in the wrong destination--once to his horror in tea-toting Salt Lake City.
"I suppose security has changed things," I said. "It's really hard these days to get on the wrong plane." He thought for a second, moving his head from side-to-side. "Not hard enough. The bad guys always have one advantage over us," he told me. "They don't mind getting killed and we do."
I told my mother-in-law to call me once she's landed at her destination.
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