I’ve been to my fair share of airports. So I’m think I’m pretty well versed when I say D.C. has the craziest airport security. Ever. In the world, maybe?

But, hey, I get it. I’m sure I’d be all up for some craaaaazaay security for my airport had a plane with some terrorists taken off and then nose dived into the Pentagon.

Totally get it.

However, does this mean that airport security must make me feel so … so … well, violated. De-humanized. Put on display.

Maybe I’ve been reading too much Fifty Shades of Grey {ahem, I blame The BF, who gave it to me and then prob became a little jealous as he had to compete with print over me}.

Or maybe it’s just me and my natural mind in the gutter, but what else is a girl left to think when she’s told in a very domineering, commanding voice:

“Now stand HERE. Yes, feet apart. Legs WIDER. Hands above the head. HOLD THEM UP STRAIGHT. DON’T move. NOW. Clasp your hands together. DON’T move. I. SAID. DON’T. MOVE.”

Jesus. Enough. I get it. I’ll freaking stand there and not move. Do I have to be yelled at? Do I have to feel like I’m being violated with about 99999,999999 pairs of eyes on me? All that was missing was a nice “bend over.”

So once I’m finally through security, I feel like I have to get dressed. I mean, it’s bad enough to remove shoes and then have to put those back on, but then it’s so much more, because, I layer. I had to contend with a long sleeve {Lululemon, naturally.) shirt, with a cardigan and a scarf. The scarf was the only thing that made it back on.

I guess what it is, is that post-security disheveled feeling. Not cool.

Which is only magnified by having to haul to my gate. My far, far away gate. At least, I got one hell of a workout in.

Arrive at Gate A6A. Only to discover, despite multiple assurances at check-in, that I was randomly selected to be bumped from the flight.

Ha. Random. Right. Random my ass. I don’t believe in random, people. And yes, I did say that — the last part, not the “my ass” part. It was very hard to refrain.

To make a long story super short:

They offer to fly me out of National at 9:30p.m. Along with a $150 voucher. Ha, again.

Let’s get this straight, I buy a ticket that I am guaranteed a seat on. Airline purposefully oversells said flight and now it’s on me? I think not.

So I negotiated the following: a taxi {no bus!} to National, paid for. A $300 voucher and First Class. Oh, and food. I wanted food.

Imagine my surprise when the guy was all, “Okay, ma’am.”

What? Really? Damn, I should have gone higher on the voucher was my first thought. I had no idea it’d be that easy. Though I was most bothered by the “ma’am”. I can’t possibly look old enough to be a “ma’am” … can I?

I was feeling mighty proud of my mad bargaining skillz. And then Mr.Suits had to come and ruin it all. Rant on the parade. Just as my ticket to National is being printed out, he informs them that he’ll miss his connection in Cincinnati for Chicago and wants to fly straight from to D.C. into O’Hare.

Damn you. Damn you and my $300 voucher.

There went that plan.

But, I kept my cool … I just left it up to The People and The Universe and assumed there was some reason I was meant to be on this flight.

However, as my flight continually kept becoming delayed and then we sat on the damn runway for an hour and 20 minutes, I thought I was beginning to lose it.

I had spent almost seven — seven! — hours at the aiport. I couldn’t handle it. Enough. Get me the hell out of here. It was good to get worked up, because then I had no patience or mind for being sad to leave.

To hell with that, too, my subconscious shouted.

I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when I landed in Cincinnati at 11. It most definitely is looking to be an early night here! This is what happens when you spend the past three nights up till 2a.m. with your Mama.