The worst part of flying is not cruising at thirty thousand feet cuddled next to strangers in a silver tube, it’s not the child behind you kicking your seat while the parent bellows, “He’s being so good,” and it’s not eating salty cheese spread and broken bread sticks out of a cardboard box. Yes, all of those things make one feel as if her life has been wrenched from her control, but the worst part is the security line.

I hate having all my emblems of personal security (credit card, migraine medication, cash) and one of my most precious possessions (Mac laptop) spread out in a series of tubs while I walk away to pass through a gate that checks me for weapons and extraneous buckles. It takes me five tubs to properly hand over my life to a blank-faced man or woman in plastic gloves.

One tub holds my laptop, another my laptop bag. I need separate tubs for shoes and jacket, purse, and freezer bag filled with “liquids”. So I dance along beside the conveyor belt, fretting over which should go first and be left unattended at the other end versus what should remain lingering at the front end. Laptop in the middle of the line, or first so it’s there when I emerge? Small suitcase first or last? Shoes are my scruffy travel shoes, I don’t care if they’re stolen and they’re not likely to be, but it would be awkward without them.

I know everyone is looking out for their own string of tubs, but still. I’m tossing my credit identity, my keys, a nice jacket and the laptop containing all the blood-letting that’s my novels and short stories on a counter in front of hordes of cranky people and security personnel. My laptop is backed-up, but I love that Mac. I’d sleep with it under my pillow if I could. And there’s some visceral terror that grips my throat when I leave all these things scattered about while I turn my back. I dare not scurry through the security door because I know they’ll send me right where I came from to walk through at the proper pace.

My logical side says it would be impossible for anyone to take my laptop and no one cares about my other precious possessions, but there’s that voice shouting, don’t spread all your things out in front of a bunch of strangers and walk away. Fear, or paranoia? I don’t know.

Once again, all my possessions survived a trip across the country, but I can’t help but wonder how the anxiety of the flying public ratchets up as each traveler is forced to trust a random, disorganized, shoeless, belt-less cluster of people with what feels like all one’s worldly possessions.