I choose to think they were truly happy to see me on my way, not relieved to be finally rid of the crazy woman who showed up, twice, putting them through countless hoops by having no identification.
I am now happy to report that last week I managed to fly to and from Los Angeles with no incident. I didn’t lose my wallet, or anything else, didn’t misplace my purse or carry-on suitcase (don’t ask – my children don’t know of those last two misadventures and I prefer they remain uninformed about them). Full disclosure to one’s offspring is vastly overrated.
My latest trip was not without an adventure, however. While visiting our two California offspring, their spouses and the world’s finest grandchildren (Dylan, age nine, and Molly, age seven, who share the Finest Grandchildren designation with their five older cousins), I averted a potential confrontation with the ever-present TSA agents over a tiny bottle of pink nail polish. This time I was totally innocent of any wrong-doing, but nevertheless, probably would have had a hard time convincing them of that, particularly if they looked up my record of past airport interactions.
The Pink Nail Polish caper began when I painted little Molly’s fingernails with a bottle she produced from heaven-knows-where and requested that her Nana give her a manicure. Nana is a push-over for any request from said Finest Grandchildren. Her nails looked quite spiffy when I finished. I assured her I would touch them up if they should become chipped while I was there. They remained splendidly pristine, so no touch-up was necessary.
However, Molly apparently was taking no chances on being left with not-perfect nails, so tucked the bottle of polish in a side pocket of my purse – a pocket I barely knew was there. I sailed through the airport scanning devices, carefully placing all liquids in a plastic bag and all other items carefully laid out in the trays provided. I reclaimed my belongings after they made their way through the scanners and went happily on my way to board my plane. Only after I was in my seat did I discover the bottle of nail polish, undeclared, in my purse.
A what-if scenario immediately played out in my head. What if they had spotted the bottle as I went through, sending off all sorts of noisy alarms and resulting in my being handcuffed and hauled off for interrogation in a window-less cell. (My imagination knows no bounds when conjuring up scary scenarios). What if they didn’t believe me when I declared my innocence, thus necessitating a call to any and all of my offspring asking for a million dollars in bail money, or thereabouts. Oh dear.
Since none of that happened, I am happy to report I still have the little nail polish bottle, fully intact, and awaiting my next trip to L.A., where I will dutifully touch up Molly’s polish, which by then will probably be somewhat the worse for wear. I will, however, carefully place the bottle in with the other liquids in a plastic bag. No use tempting fate a second time.
In the interest of full disclosure, it really is a pretty shade of pink.