I'm Really Not As Dangerous As I Look

I had to go to the Justice Center yesterday because the Register of Deeds office is located inside there and Devin is, yet again, being required to submit his birth certificate for a traveling baseball team. I used to have two or three copies of it but apparently I never got the last one back or I put it somewhere really, really weird because I tore the house apart looking for it last Saturday. To no avail.  


So I walked my happy butt into the front door of the main building, wearing my blue jeans, pink and white floral scarf, pink rain jacket, Converse sneakers, and totin' my cute little Vera Bradley bag.  You know?  Looking like a serious threat to public safety and national security.  


Apparently.


Because as I approached the little glass booth with the security guard in it, he walked outta there with his hands all gloved up in latex, and without so much as hinting to crack a smile said, "Come on up."  I put my Vera Bradley down on the table that he immediately unzipped and started pawing through as he looked up at me and said (all exhausted like), "Come on through, you idiot."  Okay, so he didn't really say 'idiot' but I swear he implied it.  


After I walked through the little security gate and he continued to paw through my belongings, he was dead serious when he looked at me and asked, "You don't have any guns, knives, hand grenades or anything like that in here, do you?"  


And it took every ounce of strength in my body to keep the sarcasm queen locked up because she was practically cutting flips and karate chopping at the door to get out as she shouted her witty comebacks at me.  This guy didn't seem like the type who would appreciate her humor though so I took a deep breath, smiled at him, shook my head no and kinda snickered as I replied, "I don't think so."  


And for one split second I thought I saw the corner of his mouth begin to hint at a smile but he stopped it dead in its tracks, zipped my bag back up and said, "Good. Register of Deeds is to your left."


I don't know what it is about me but I swear every.single.time I have to go through a security checkpoint, it's almost as if I'm flying a  freak flag and wearing a sticker that says, "Hello, My name is Psycho and I have a bomb in my bag."  


Back in August when Charlie and I flew to Maine, I wore a long maxi dress which is apparently a big no-no because the gloved, uniformed female officer stopped me, told me to stand "over there" and wait until she could get another female officer to come pat me down.  


Charlie was already through and looking back at me as if to say WTH? and I gave him my I have no idea...WTH? look back. She finally told me that the reason I had to be patted down was because of my long dress, they couldn't see if I had anything underneath (as in between my legs).  She said, "Maybe you don't, but maybe you do...I just don't know, do I?!" 


Seriously. 


I don't even own a gun.  


And I'm always careful to leave my hand grenades in the car before entering a high security area.