Of the legal variety, clearly.
We went to a wedding in the States the weekend before last. The trip itself was awesome, and, as usual, I promise to come back and write a post about it later, even if, as usual, I probably won’t end up doing it. Hashtag laziness.
And so, keeping with the general spirit of this blog, I present you with a rant about something tangentially related to epilepsy (and to the voyage).
Though I have weird travel anxiety that largely dissolves once I get on the plane, everything was going so well, for once: we got to the airport early, there were no lineups, and we quickly checked our bag. And then, going through security, I was randomly selected for extra screening. No biggie, I told myself.
This being Canada, things are pretty lax, so the CATSA/ACTSA agent gave me three options. “Pat down, scanner, or swab?” she asked. Me being Canadian, I felt the need to seem as casual and easygoing as possible. “Whatever’s easiest!” I cheerfully responded. She chose the swab. A few seconds after she put the samples in the machine to process, it began to beep and flash red, spitting out an ominous white report.
Three additional agents quickly flocked over to examine the sheet. They then began to go through my bags with impressive thoroughness as I stood there, my anxiety increasing by the second. This is when I started to doubt myself. Had I packed explosives? Anxiety disorder for the win!
“Do you mind coming this way? I’m going to have to ask you to do the scan, just as an additional security measure,” the first agent said. After I had stepped out of the scanner, she looked at the monitor and frowned. “Hm. I’m going to have to pat you down.”
Now frisked, demoralized, and paranoid about what else would go wrong, I returned to the small task force examining my makeup case. They finished their job as abruptly as they began, repacking my stuff and asking me some questions for their paperwork.
This is when everything finally made sense.
“Do you take any medications?”
I provided a list, and the agent nodded knowingly.
“That’s probably it.”
I was too flustered to ask what “that” meant, so I don’t know which of my drugs made my palms/bags test positive, but it’s comforting to know that I consume materials used in explosives. In related news, next time I’m choosing the pat down.