Yesterday morning I was at airport at five in the morning. After a grueling security line, I was instructed to walk through the infamous backscatter. I asked for a pat down instead, and was then subjected to…well, I don’t know what to call it. Something between a physical and a third date. The woman who—what is the correct term? felt me up? performed the search?—was employed by the TSA and is now intimately familiar with my butt seemed pretty angry that I had opted out of the backscatter.
It was ultimately not a particularly big deal—I didn’t feel violated, just embarrassed, more for the TSA employee than for me.
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