I didn't want to travel given everything that's going on in the world, but for reasons that aren't worth explaining, I was talked into this trip. The goal was to play softball in Disney's Wide World of Sports complex, and to do touristy things when we had time.

The problems really began in the airport. I was curious to see what kind of security we'd face, and was apprehensive in general about the trip. Our original flight had been cancelled more than a week ago, and I was disappointed when the team rescheduled. My husband Johnny and I now had an early Thursday flight.

By Thursday morning I was still reluctant, and even as we approached the ticket counter, I was kicking myself for agreeing to go along. I used to love flying but that has changed, and I was fairly sure Johnny would have to drag me onto the plane.

After scowling at his computer screen for several minutes, the airline employee at the counter told us he couldn't find our names anywhere on the flight. I was thrilled. Let's go home, I said. Johnny and the employee both ignored me. He found two seats somewhere in that damn computer, checked our large bags, and we were on our way.

We headed for the carry-on bag X-ray area, me dragging my feet, wishing I could still find a way to get out of this. I waited my turn, placed my small bag on the conveyer belt and walked through the metal detector without incident. As we waited patiently for my bag to reappear, the conveyer belt stopped. "There are SCISSORS in this bag!" someone announced loudly. Everyone turned. Additional security personnel rushed to see the screen. What kind of an idiot would pack scissors I wondered.

I was sincerely surprised when they said it was my bag.

I was escorted out of the area and asked to remove the scissors from the bag. I was confused because I knew I didn't pack them, and to make matters worse, I couldn't find them. I sat on the floor and took everything out. No scissors. They X-rayed the bag again, to the obvious delight of everyone else waiting in line. There they were, on the screen, plain as day, scissors. Security personnel escorted me back out of the area, and asked me to open the bag again. I did. No scissors. We repeated this pattern two or three more times. I was frantic by then. Where the %@%#@! could those scissors be, I thought to myself, meanwhile trying to keep a sweet smile on my face. Afraid I was about to be arrested for scissors smuggling, I kept digging.

Finally an extremely patient and helpful employee found a small, zippered compartment in the lid of my luggage, one that I didn't even remember existed. As she reached her hand inside the compartment, I found myself panicking silently. I don't remember that compartment! What else could be in there? Drugs? Do I have drugs in there? Wait. I don't do drugs. There can't be drugs in there. Oh, I hope there aren't drugs in there...

And then she pulled out ... a sewing kit.

Complete with scissors.

To what I think was the sound of nearby applause, I heaved the scissors into the nearest trash bin. (I had packed the sewing kit more than a year ago in one of my more organized moments, and then forgot about it.) The airline even offered to hold the scissors for me until my return trip, but since sewing has never been a priority for me, I declined the offer. I just wanted out.

I was so unraveled by the experience I could barely walk to the gate. Johnny was laughing and shaking his head, but I couldn't quite see the humor. My head was pounding and my chest was tight, and I hadn't even GOTTEN ON THE PLANE YET!

"I can't believe you packed scissors," he said again and again.

"Just keep walking," I instructed.

As I staggered down the hallway toward our gate, an elderly security guard approached us, waving some sort of wand-like thing, which I hoped was a metal detector. We had been randomly (I assume randomly) selected for another security check. I stood numbly as this gentleman asked Johnny to stand straight, with his arms out to his sides, like an airplane.

In the middle of this very crowded, very public area, the search for metal began. Front and back, head to toe, without touching him, the security guard ran the wand around the Johnny's silhouette. Only his sneakers set off the beeping alarm. But that was no big deal apparently. He wasn't asked to remove his size 14 shoes, despite the fact that a box cutter, or a bazooka, could fit inside. It must be the metal rings that the shoelaces go through, said the security guard (which these sneakers didn't have, but who are we to point out the obvious). Nothing to worry about here, the guard decided.

I noticed that other travelers were walking by, using the phones, buying books, and glancing our way. We couldn't have been more center stage.

Then it was my turn. Arms outstretched, I endured the procedure calmly, assuming nothing could be as bad as what I'd just gone through back in X-ray. We proceeded without incident, that is, until my bra set off the metal detector. The hooks in the back, specifically. I didn't panic through, but mumbled something about the bra strap. I assumed the guard would be as disinterested in this as he was the shoes. But that wasn't the case. He stepped back and looked at Johnny, motioning to him in some way I couldn't quite see. Before I knew it, Johnny stepped forward and lifted the back of my shirt to reveal my bra.

What just happened here? I thought to myself. Did we just lift my shirt in the airport?

Yet I remained standing quietly, like an obedient sheep trying to fly, my arms still outstretched as instructed. I was grateful I hadn't put on an underwire bra that morning. At least it was only the back of the bra that was causing trouble. I tried not to look at the faces of all the people around us, but Johnny told me later that many were watching and smiling. (Mostly the men I'm guessing.)

After a brief glimpse of my back, the security guy decided I wasn't concealing a weapon. My shirt was lowered and we were allowed to pass.

I walked toward the gate trying to digest the incident. "What just happened, and why were you so cooperative?" I asked Johnny. He laughed again. (At least someone was having a good time.) "Well you do fit the profile," he kept saying.

By the time I was sitting on the plane, it was beginning to sink in that I had just flashed half the airport. I spent most of the flight leaning against the window, eyes closed, rubbing my temples. If there had been a terrorist on board, I don't think I would have even noticed.

As for the rest of the weekend, we won a few games, lost a few games, and then went to Sea World. And given everything else going on in the world, I didn't feel justified in complaining about the bra business. In fact, later I was more disturbed that the guard hadn't bothered to look in Johnny's sneakers.