Random Junior High Memories

 I was in junior high when I first heard Englebert Humperdink sing The Last Waltz on the radio. I was so impressed with his voice. I mean, I knew he was old. At least forty, with one foot in the grave. When you're 14, anyone over 20 is ancient. His hit song, 'Please Release Me' I didn't appreciate as much. I remember thinking, you're embarrassing yourself. Just break up with her like a normal person.

But I admired his fine tenor voice ( I didn't know he was a tenor...I had to join a choir to learn that) and wondered what it would be like to be in school and have such a gift. I'm certain that I'd be wandering up and down the hallways singing like a character from West Side Story. I pictured the other kids in my Catholic junior high school standing back. 'What a voice!' they'd say. (Or, what a loser! It could go either way.)  I have no idea if Englebert actually sang at school, but I hope he did.

My sister Linda worked part time at the library. Wealthy by teenage standards, she bought a K-Tel record with the song, "England Swings' by Roger Miller. We were upping our sophisitcation in leaps and bounds. Especially when he wowed us with songs like "Oo-De Lally' from the Disney cartoon, Robin Hood. 

Linda had nice clothes. Our babysitting money couldn't buy the kind of wardrobe she had, so she generously shared with us. Unfortunately Susan burned holes in a few of the dresses. After she died, I pictured her up in heaven saying, "Just get over it!" 

 I remember when Susan and I borrowed our dad's razor to shave our legs for the first time. We had no fashion magazines. There were no television shows like Gidget or the Brady Bunch to show us the way. In our small northern town, CBC was the only TV station. We had The Friendly Giant and Mr. Dressup. We were clueless when it came to grooming.

Dad's razor looked like this: Any decent serial killer could have

used it for slitting throats.

 

                        

It had one very sharp blade and no guard or protective strip. We also shaved our arms, since we weren't sure what all was required. Then we went into the kitchen with blood pouring from our numerous cuts. I vaguely remember mom asking us,  Why?' Well, it it was time. 'But nobody shaves their arm hair,' she said, looking a bit uncertain.  Then she bandaged us up. 

Our lack of sophistication was her doing. She was not a girly girl in any way. We owned no hair dryers except for this one.

 We had no curling irons, or curlers of any kind, and no makeup. We were a 'come as you are,' family. In high school, some of us went very edgy with a bit of lip gloss. I believe Susan did a deep dive with eye liner. She looked a bit like Twiggy, but with less cool hair.

We used our dad's razor again. "Why is this thing so dull?" he'd ask with a puzzled look. "I just changed the blade!" We were very, very good at wearing the most innocent expressions. Somehow, he had six daughters and managed not to murder any of us. Although we almost did that ourselves with his bladed instrument of death. When I got married, I switched to my husband's Schick razor. He'd ask the same questions as my dad regarding it's dullness. At some point they came out with pink ones and I bought one of those.  

I can't help thinking how tough it must be for young girls today. Everybody and their dog has tips on how to have better skin (we used Noxema...it was the only cream in the house) or nicer hair. I wouldn't have minded looking a  bit more grown up, but I appreciate the lack of pressure on teens in the 60's and 70's. It helped that the no makeup look was in for a very long time.

 I finally had a handle on grooming by the time I reached my fifties. My daughters were young women and teenagers by that time, and they taught me things. I remember sitting in the bathroom while they curled my hair for some event. I'm encouraged by the fact that my eldest daughter gets a lot of good advice from her teenager, too. And so it goes.

And now, here is my very cool sister, Linda, with her great bag and a dress that I borrowed many times. 

Tell Us How We did!

 It has come to my attention that large companies are more insecure than we could have guessed. Whether it's an airline, a telecom company, or a furniture store, they're in need of constant reassurance. Like a child who's misbehaved. 'You still love me, mom. Right? Right? Dad? Anyone?'

This is especially true if you've had a problem and spent time on the phone with service people. When you finally hang up, relieved to get back to your life, an email or text pops up.

 "How did we do? Did we solve your problem? Are you satisfied?' 

Like an insecure lover, they want constant validation and confirmation. Tell us we're the best you ever had! I got married at 21 and I took my husband at his word when he said, quoting the Carly Simon song, 'Nobody does it better.' What did I know? Besides, he didn't have an insecure bone in his whole body. Not even the important one. (Okay....I'm sorry...I got a little racy there. But how am I doing, otherwise? Tell me what you think! Just kidding.) 

For example, we tend to feel enraged we're our internet service is terrible and we're paying big bucks for it. Luckily, Flin Flonners have it better than people in the city. Why? Because we know the people who show up at the door. We know their parents, too. And where they live. So the service in that regard is always good. Repairs are made, conversations are had. It's a nice experience. 

But when you have to call them, the company begins to show its insecurity. The moment I hang up, an email lands in my inbox. "Tell us how Chris did!" Now, while this is enraging...I had a problem and it was their job to fix it, but I feel like I'm letting Chris down if I don't give him a good report. Because he was helpful, and I'm worried that if I don't reply, he'll get fired. What if he has an awful boss? So I fill out a survey giving him plenty of pats on the back. And all the while, I feel resentful that I'm donating my time to a situation I didn't create. 

What's even more annoying are those times when I return from a trip and the airline sends me an email: 'How did we do on your flight?' 

Dear Jesus. I've started to ignore them, because, what can I say? The plane didn't go down? The seats in coach are unbearable but you know that already? They won't give me herbal tea because I'm in coach?

The exception to this is our local airline, Calm Air. I returned two days ago from Winnipeg, landing first in the Pas and then Flin Flon. The air was anything but calm, so the descent and take off terrified me both times. Tthe people across the aisle and the lady beside me felt the same way. We even had our barf bags in hand...that's how bad it was.

 Now, this was not the airline's fault because it was an exceedingly windy day. And this might shock some people, but Calm Air is my favourite. Why? Because people from my home town are the ones who check your ID (even if you live next door to them) and you always know other people on board. It feels so neighborly, chatting as we line up, and then talking with the folks seated around us. Maybe it's just me. In fact, there's a chance that people say, 'Dear God, Judy Pettersen's on the plane! Will she ever shut up?" The answer most likely is, no.  Although I usually read most of the way, so I'm not a completely terrible seat mate. And the best part is, Calm Air never checks in about your experience. They don't want to know, and I don't care to tell them. We're both happy about that.

Another 'How Are We Doing?' letter I dislike receiving is from charities I support. Perhaps it's petty, but I find myself thinking, I give you money. I care about your work. But don't make me write an essay about it, or fill in a questionaire about what you could be doing better. How would I know? That's why you work there and I don't. And feeling this way makes me feel like an asshole, so it's a double whammy...a survey and a guilty concience. Even though I donate to them every month. lI want to write this to them: please continue doing the good work and I'll keep supporting you. And leave me alone.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately (can you tell?) and I've realized that the older you get, the less likely you're inclined to put up with extra work that doesn't add any value to your life. Or to anyone else's, really. Except maybe Chris, who helped you on the phone. And who deserves not to be fired because I didn't fill out a survey. 

If you, dear reader, have any opinions about this, feel free to share. Don't leave me alone in my crabbiness. Surely you've been sent an unwanted questionaire or two. And no...I'm not talking about the government census. For heaven's sake, stop complaining and just fill it out!' (Sorry, still feeling crabby.)

Pick Me!

While waiting for planting season, I had a revelation. Gardening centres are like bars for older people. Now, some of these older people may still be in their mid-twenties, but all gardeners have old souls.  And the one thing all generations have in common is our longing for colour. For an end to the dirty white snow and dead brown ground that follows that final melt. Let's face it. Once the Christmas decorations come down, we find ourselves passing the gardening aisles with their patio sets and sunbrellas and dreaming about flowers. 

We all have our favourites. While some love roses, I think they're too uptight. Their blossoms open slowly, transforming from a tight bud to a modest bloom. By the time they're fully open, they're half dead. Even then, you can tell they're holding back. If you compared a rose to a girl from a '70's romance novel, she'd have died without a carnal thought in her head. A few chaste kisses, some light petting and she'd have shown you the door.

Peonies, on the other hand, are the bar flies of the flower world. Their extravagant but short lived blooms draw the eye of everyone passing through the garden. Of course, their promise is short lived. After a number of days...maybe a week...they start to droop. Some brief moments of glory, and it's all over. Next thing you know, the petals are falling off and the blooms are ragged around the edges. Why? They never left the bar. And that life style is hard on a gal.

 'Remember Rita?" I picture some old drunk saying. "She was beautiful, but not for long." Not that he could talk. "Buddy, you're a 4" tall Alyssum," his drunk friend says."You're short and boring. Give it a rest." Even a bar fly has her fans.

Then there's the common Marigold flower. The 'shouters' of the garden, whether potted or placed protectively around the vegetables. It's why they're so effective against pests. They're loud. Eventually, their noisy voices wear the pests out until finally, they give up. At night, I picture the vegetables saying, "For God's sake, be quiet! We're trying to sleep!"

Geraniums of all colours show best when they're full and round, with all their petals in place. Like models strutting the runway, hair done, makeup immaculate. But they're also brilliant at hanging in there, and not too fussed about being watered, either. I discovered that during last year's evacuation. They're brave in all kinds of weather, and even though they love the sun, they do okay in the shade. For part of a day, anyway. You can count on them, and I like a dependable flower. They're pretty inside or out, even when cut and placed in a vase. But they're always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Even the white blossoms.

Petunias are much the same. A little more demanding, given their need for dead heading. I swear I hear them calling me from across the yard. "What are you waiting for? Pull the dead blossoms, lady!" Their idea of looking pretty is to pout and droop down the sides of their containers. It's like they're constantly auditioning for a role. "Look at me! I'm not tired...I'm just pretending!" They're hardy, so it's easy to take them for granted. 

My favourite flower is the begonia, especially the yellow ones. I like it when they get big and blousy, like a southern belle past her prime but still looking terrific. If they get enough shade, they last well into cooler weather. They like compliments, so I offer them plenty when I pass their containers beside my front door. "You're beautiful, ladies," I say. (Maybe they're not all female? I'm not a botanist...what do I know.)

My least favourite bloom in the garden is the wild daisy. They're so sneaky. One minute you're admiring your perennials, and the next, there's a two foot tall bunch of daisies plunked down in the middle of the hostas, or squatting against the primroses. They're aggressive, and they spread quickly, like a gang moving in to take over the neighborhood.

 "You sons of bitches," I've been known to shout when I spot them.  Occasionally, this frightens folks passing by. "I wasn't talking to you!" I call out to them.

I've told you about mine,now please share your favourites. I'm not very good at remembering names, so add a picture in the comments, if you're able. And keep an eye on your peonies this summer. Their blooms are so short lived. And whatever you do, don't let them anywhere near the wine. 

 

We All Fall Down

 In my last blog post, I told you all about my Blepharospasm diagnosis. It didn't really hit me when I found out in September. Its quirky name tracked with my Odd Duck Syndrome. And I thought, Okay. I can do weird. I kind of live there. And, except for no longer driving out of town, not a lot changed.

On March 2, I arrived at the Winnipeg airport, popped my suitcase onto the escalator and rode to the top. As occasionally happens, my eyes spasmed and I didn't lift up the suitcase in time. Instead, it flew back against me, throwing me down the stairs where my bootlace got caught and the stairs kept moving and my suitcase bounced on top of my head.

It took a while to pull my bootlace loose, push my suitcase up and grab onto the plate above the stairs to haul myself up. The worst part was how old it made me feel. I'm not this person, I thought as I headed out to meet my brother in law, Bob. I climbed into his car, looking like I'd spent a few hours being tortured. My hands were bleeding, my left side was covered in a massive purple bruise and a rib was pushed out of place. 

Linda and Bob cleaned and bandaged my hands and the next day I flew to Calgary. Two chiropractor appointments and one massage later, I still felt a bit messed up. This is not me, I kept thinking. 

When I flew back to Winnipeg, my neurologist put four botox shots into my forehead to help slow the eye spasms. For the first three days, aside from a headache, I felt well. On day four, I woke up with double vision and a sagging left eyelid. According to the Blepharospasm support site, this results from too much botox in one spot. Or, you accidentally rubbed your forehead. 

When I got home, I started taping my eyes open. If they hung down even a little bit, my vision would double. Today it's two weeks after my appointment, and my eyes are beginning to adjust. I can read for longer periods, and the TV isn't split in two when I'm watching a show. 

But I confess to feelings of self pity during these episodes. Mostly because it changed how I see myself. I'm strong, independent and fit for my age.( Right? Thank you! I agree!) And yet, this experience took my self confidence down about 20 notches. It's been so humbling. But it's been a revelation, too. 

Because, we all fall down. In one way or another, we all have to come to terms with certain limitations as we age. For some, it's disability from cancer treatments. For others, it's a newly diagnosed heart condition, or diabetes, or kidney disease or arthritis. Most of us aren't outliers like my healthy Uncle Lionel who lived to a hundred and two.

At some point in our lives, all of us will experience unexpected and difficult moments. And when (some of us) are lying wherever we've fallen, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what just happened, the answer to our survival is not more whining. It's gratitude:

Thank you for my warm bed. Thank you for my car.

Thank you for grocery stores and food in the fridge. Thank you for fridges.

Thank you for my siblings and my children. Thank you for my friends.

Thank you for Canadian health care. It's not perfect, but unlike in many other countries, the wolf is not at the door when a family member needs a second cancer surgery.

Thank you for books and television and movie theatres and our local Drive In, and for all the traveling I've done in the past that opened my eyes to the truth about my life. That it's good. That's its valuable and precious and worth living. That we all fall down, but with the help of others, like my neurologist and my friends and family who give me rides and spend time with me, we take those extended hands and we get up again. 

There will come a day when we don't get up. When we lie there, and loved ones whisper, 'She's gone.' But that's okay. Like birth, death is a part of life. And for  those believers like me, after the trauma of death comes the good part... the door to our next life opens and we meet God and all our dead loved ones. For those who believe that death is truly the end, there's peace in that, too. 

The thing about aging is, you learn a few things. Mostly, that the part of your life where you need to be the bravest is often near the end of it. That's when things get hard. So when you see someone walking with a cane because they've had a knee replacement, or sitting in a wheelchair because their legs don't work anymore, think of them as a soldier enduring some final battles. There are people who experience daily pain. Somehow, they cope, often without letting on to the rest of us about how they're feeling. We don't think about these things when we're young. 

For those growing older, all we can do is pick ourselves up. And reach out to the person lying next to us. Because the best way to get through life is to take the time to be someone else's gift. I learned that from my sister, Susan. The best part of aging is learning the power of compassion. Not just for other people, but for ourselves, too. 

So, be kind to yourself. Forgive your mistakes, and your 'What's that person's name?' moments. And be kind to everyone else. They may be fighting a battle you know nothing about.  

Odd Duck Syndrome

 I've not received an official diagnosis for ODS. It's just something I figured out while moving through my life.  You know how when you get old enough, you eventually find your people? You might nod at each other at social events, recognizing your similarities. You share an understanding, like when two masons give each other a certain kind of handshake. (I'm not positive about that...just guessing.) But, do these kindred spirits have kleenex in their ears because the music is too loud? Are they like certain individuals at my gym who clap hands over their ears when the fire alarm is being tested? While at a party, you might find them alone in a room, reading a book instead of mingling. (This is not me...I'm a massive mingler, as was my husband. We used to get home and say to each other, 'You never shut up for a moment!) But I know people who fall into this category, and recognize the unique sweetness of their ODS.

I'm not sure how our parents coped with raising seven quirky children. I picture their worried conversations at bedtime when we were young.  My mom asking my dad,  "When they're watching TV, is it normal for Judy and Susan to share a cold pillow while holding onto each other's ear lobes and sucking their thumbs at the same time?"(Sometimes we'd have to fetch another pillow, because the first wasn't cold enough.)  I picture my dad shrugging. "They're quiet...that's good, right?" 

 I'm too embarrassed to tell you how long this self soothing behaviour lasted. But we were certainly in school by the time we outgrew it. 

I know that some of my odd duck syndrom stems from having a slight case of ADHD. I don't have any of the H, but the rest is fairly accurate. Though never once did my husband tell me that I have a stimming habit. Basically, I sing the same verse of a song over and over  again out loud without realizing I'm doing it. This, I've since discovered, can drive my children insane. It's one of the things I'd love to ask my dead spouse about. Did he even notice? 

I'm not what you'd consider obsessively clean, but I have a problem with untidy shopping carts. When I'm returning mine, I'm deeply bothered by the ones haphazardly scattered around the parking lot. Anyone watching me would feel certain that I work for the store, as I move the ones that were left in the wrong spot, and make sure everything is lined up carefully. It's a thing. I can't stop myself. And frankly, it seems inconsiderate that everyone else isn't as concerned about it. The world would be a better place if everyone started placing things properly. We could start there and just watch how the political landscape improves. Perhaps Putin would hear the story about Canada's tidy shopping carts and say, 'That's it, I'm done with my attempts at world domination. These people are so organized and careful, they're simply unbeatable!'

On the other hand, I can notice a dropped kleenex on the floor of my living room, and walk by it all day, thinking, hmm. That doesn't belong there. And yet it takes 

a while for my brain to get to the next step, which is, why don't I pick it up? 

But the most ODS experience I've had so far is a recent diagnosis of a condition called Blepharospasm. I'd never heard of it, but I'd been having trouble with my eyes feeling dry or closing unexpectedly. In September, this condition was confirmed by a neurologist who barked out questions that had me answering like a nervous army recruit.

Then, he walked out from behind his desk and administered the 'Vulcan Pinch.' If you've never watched Star Trek, the move involves pinching someone's shoulder very close to their neck. "Ow!" I said. (He was checking for other dystonia symptoms, but I didn't know that.)

"Sit up straight!" he replied in a commanding voice. I did. In fact, I was already sitting up straight. You know how you want to make a good impression with specialists, as if  'good patient' behaviour means they'll automatically give you the 'all clear?' I was in that headspace. 

He gave me a lecture about posture, and without warning, pushed a shot of lidocaine into my upper back as well as 4 units of botox above my eyebrows. Apparently, this 'relaxes' the eye muscles and slows down this spastic habit. As soon as I heard the word spastic, I was thrown back into high school, where 'You Spaz!' was a favourite insult. And for people like me, the shoe already fit. I didn't need that word thrown at me to understand the truth of it. 

For instance, while working at the Rex Theatre during high school, I fell down a long staircase, thus earning the nickname, Max. (For non-boomers, he was a sixties TV character who was... let's just say... not very competent. It didn't hurt my feelings.) Besides, we wore dresses and high heels. As ushers! Thankfully, movie theatre ushers of today wear comfortable shoes and loose fitting polyester uniforms. 

Anyway, every time I see this neurologist, I come up with new questions. Like, 'can stress cause this condition?' No. It's been sitting in my brain since before I was born. Could stress be a factor? Yes, as it turns out. It is the match that got all this started, and it happened after my sister died. Her death woke it up, though I didn't make the connection between kayaking across a lake with my eyes closed as being weird for the longest time. And I can't drive out of town anymore....I have to fly. Which is such a hassle. For instance, I can no longer buy large containers for my garden at Home Sense, or go to Costco to spend $400 on things I don't need. I miss that. And occasionally when I'm walking around my house, I don't recognize that my eyes are closed and I walk into a wall. But for the most part, it just feels like something I would naturally do.

I still feel like I live a blessed life. Other than this eye thing, I'm healthy. But if you see me walking down the street blinking obsessively, know that it's just my Odd Duck Syndrome showing up. Or my blepharospasm. Whichever, it all feels like business as usual. So, to my ODS people, take heart. At least we have each other .And if any of you in my vicinity have blepharsopasm, please speak up. There's only 100 of us out of every million people who have it, after all. But Odd Ducks are a dime a dozen. Just ask everyone.

I've Got the Power!

 A few days ago, I forgot to plug in my car on a -40C night. It was parked inside my poorly insulated garage when I went to start it, and it made a clicking noise followed by a groaning sound. I tried again. My school of thought is always, maybe it just isn't ready yet. Hopeful thinking is my normal jam, but this time I had to accept that I'd been a dumbass.

The hardest thing for me in these kinds of situations is how mad I get at myself. I don't literally smack myself around the head, but I always feel like a kid waiting in the principal's office. I breathed in and out, then phoned someone for a ride to church. Donna Hurst left choir practice to pick me up. 

When I got home, I found my Nautilus power pack info in my file folder of manuals. Let me be clear. These manuals are never straightforward enough for people like me. We need someone from the company to show up in person. To stroke our hair and kiss our cheeks and say, "Everything will be okay. Let me walk you through this.' But that is not part of any company's service policy, as far as I know.

Maybe the super rich receive that kind of treatment, but I doubt they ever worry about dead batteries in winter. They would select one of their ten other cars instead. And have them parked in a heated garage. They'd never have this kind of problem because they're always prepared. Or their chauffeur is always prepared. I never should have dropped out of Girl Guides, because of the whole, 'Always Be Prepared,' thing. 

I waited until today to place the power pack under my car hood. Whenever I embark on this kind of mission, I pretend I'm Tom Cruise or Angelina Jolie in an action movie. And the world's fate relies on me doing the right thing. Frankly, this situation makes me feel like I will: A: mess up and B: die from electrocution. And my neighbors won't find me because it's way too cold for anyone to be wandering around outside. Only when my children frantically call them will they find my body in the garage by the car. With burns. I'm not sure where the burns would be, but my imagination makes a pretty good case for everywhere. 

I shook off my nerves and went over my car's manual, repeating over and over again, 'attach the black part to any non painted metal part that does not move. It was something to that effect, but it's been six hours and my recall is less than perfect. Although I still know my times table.( Humble brag.)

Tentatively, like I was handling nitroglycerin, I placed the jumper cables, got into the car and turned the key. It started immediately. My car, whom I call Marty McFly, is a Toyota Rav, and he's way more dependable than me. I might have heard him shouting, 'Plug me in!' on Saturday night, but felt too lazy to get off the couch.

Next, it was time to disconnect. Now, this is another problem with manuals. They assume you know what to do when it's what they consider an 'easy' part. But I'd heard that you had to disconnect one colour first. Was it red or back? Fortunately, I saw my letter carrier walking past my garage and called for help. 'It doesn't matter,' she said, so I unhooked one, then the other, but placed them in different parts of the garage because I had this crazy idea that they should never touch, even once they were unhooked. ( I read too many fairy tales as a child, so everyday things tend to feel sinister under the right circumstances.)

I left Marty running for a bit and then drove around for a while. It's a good thing no one was out walking because I would have rolled down my car window and hollered at them, 'I just boosted my own car battery!' 

Many of you are probably shaking your heads and wondering how I'm still alive when I know so little about these things. Last summer, I bought a small electric saw that I have yet to figure out because the instructions don't give enough information. And in the online videos, it's always men doing the demos, and their big hands cover the important parts. And yet, after my brother showed me on four different occasions how to use my mitre saw, he finally said, 'Take a video of me doing this,' and it worked. But only because I was there to direct the movie.

I'm the most cautious person who ever camped their way across Asia. (It was mostly Clarence's idea.) So I tend to approach many things as if they're about to kill me. But now, I know how to use my power pack. It also has a USB port and two electrical outlets so I can do things like power my phone if the electricity goes out.  I wonder if it would get me through one whole episode of Heated Rivalry? (Straight men, don't bother watching. Gay men and straight women, jump right in. Although, it feels a bit creepy for someone my age because the hockey players are so young. I usally stop watching after ten minutes because I get very anxious about them and their careers. So it's going to take a while to finish the series but...okay, this is way too much information for all of you.) 

Thank you for reading...it's much better  to share with you all than to just holler into the void about this stuff. Although I've been known to do that, too. Especially when I've locked myself out of my house while taking a Swedish. If you never read about that, it's right here. 

Judith Pettersen: Search results for The Swedish

Full Body Shamer

 A few weeks ago, I decided to buy some long underwear. My old ones bagged at the knees and sagged at the waist. I looked like an 19th century cowboy climbing down from his horse for the last time. At our local Red Apple store I found a pair of Hanes with a cashmere-like inner fabric. A long-sleeve black Tee shirt completed the outfit. 

This was the look of a serious winter athlete. One who spends hours outdoors and needs to feel warm yet not bulky. I took them home, put them on and felt my athletic ability rise and my weight plummet. (Mostly because I had to suck in my stomach. Otherwise I looked like Mrs. Claus attempting a yoga workout.) So far, I've worn them for lying on the couch reading and occasionally for watching television. 

A few weeks later, I was going through security at the Winnipeg airport. I stepped confidently into the full body scanner, legs apart and arms raised. Now, for those who take a more cavalier approach, let me tell you that I do not. I wear pants with no pockets, always take off my boots, and generally treat the  scanner as a challenge I'm going to win. 

"Any change in your pockets?"

"Absolutely not," I said to The Man. My tone was that of an offended Victorian grandmother clutching her pearls. But in spite of all my convinction and effort, I didn't pass the test. Not once, twice or three times. They beckoned me out of the scanner, the two transportation security officers frowning as they walked around me.  At one point they stepped back, like I might be packing grendades under my clothes. After a cartoonish double take, the woman said, 'Are you wearing two pairs of pants?' 

Giving my tummy a reassuring pat, I said, "Well, yeah. Sometimes it's cold on the plane." 

"Tug that inner waistband up. No, go higher. Higher than that." 

By this point, I'd given myself a serious wedgie. "I feel like Steve Urkel," I said.  They just stared at me.  'Never mind," I sighed, and muttered, 'what is happening here?" They didn't answer me.  Once back in the scanner, they had me widen my stance and lift my arms even higher. It finally worked.

 "You can go now," the woman said. "But pack your exra pants next time. And put them on at the airport."

 "They're not extra pants...."  I'd lost them. They were already busy torturing another passenger.

After this kind of experience, I long for someone dangerous to follow behind me in the lineup. Someone they'll have to chase through the airport. Then I could justifiably say, 'Why are you bothering with my long underwear?" Alas, nobody else gave them any trouble. 

I don't know what it was with me. Too much fabric?  Long underwear in general? Those machine don't like things that are hidden. But come on. Everyone layers in winter. Even at the airport. Right?

Here is a photo of the long underwear I bought. This is not me in the picture, but let's pretend it is.