Opting out of the scanner inflicts punitive measures on the traveler. I speak from experience.

Recently, I flew out of Atlanta and ended up in the “random pick” line for the Nude-o-scope (or porn-scope, as some people call them). I told the TSA barker that - due to personal and religious beliefs - I wanted to opt out.

She rolled her eyes and told me to step around the machine. In a strident voice, she then screeched, “I need a female attendant for a pat down!”

This was my first time dealing with this new technology, but I’d decided months ago that I was NOT going to be microwaved on “medium defrost” *and* have my 51-year-old body ogled by a TSA employee.

So the angry TSA attendant parked me next to the scanner and told me to stay still (as though I were a trained dog). I kept looking at the scanning device and and hoping that the Plexiglas shroud would effectively block the machine’s radiation.

Meanwhile, my personal belongings hit the end of the conveyor belt, but parked in my spot beside the scanner, I could barely see the gray bins containing my brand-new Toshiba laptop, my small leather wallet, my cell phone and my keys.

I literally pleaded with the TSA attendant to allow me to retrieve my personal possessions and she refused. I was traveling alone (as I often do). I then pleaded with her to allow me to at least be in the line of sight of my things and she again barked that I was to remain still.

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to your thangs,” she said, obviously annoyed.

“This is what happens when you opt out,” I thought to myself. “You lose your wallet and your laptop. Very, very effective.”

I watched the hordes of travelers moving through the “traffic lanes” of the security line, retrieving their personal items and realizing, anyone one of them could easily lift and pocket my things and no one would be the wiser. I was sick with fear. There were no TSA agents near my belongings (which I now realize was a blessing). No one watching out for them. All my things just sat at the end of that conveyor belt, about 20-25 feet away from me.

The minutes ticked by. I kept edging over a little more and a little more until I could at least SEE my personal things. The angry TSA agnet would periodically screech, “I need a female attendant for a pat down.”

Each time she screeched, I watched dozens of heads turn in the long line, eyeballing the crazy woman who’d been removed from the regular line and set aside. I served as an excellent example. While I dutifully waited for a female TSA attedant, not one other soul opted out of the scanner.

Dozens of passengers went by as I stood there, moving so close that they literally brushed past me. Finally, after a 30+ minute wait, a female appeared and moved me several feet away to another area. Now, I was closer to my things and could at least keep an eye on them.

The attendant started patting me down. She offered to allow me to do this in a private screening area, but I had declined for fear of losing my wallet, my cell phone and my laptop. It was a helluva bad spot to be in. Which was worse - this intense public pat down or having my things stolen? I opted for “b.”

Next, she ran a circular pad all over my clothes and then put it in the sniffer. This is where I nearly threw up with fear. Last time I’d gone to the target range with my .38, I’d worn these jeans. After firing the weapon, I often wiped my right hand on the right thigh of my pants. I wondered if the gunpowder residue would show up on that sniffer.

It was terrifying. I was nauseous and started to feel light-headed and faint.

Finally - 45 minutes later, it was over.

The entire affair was very punitive, and humiliating and time consuming and emotionally distressing. When I retrieved my things, I walked into the women’s restroom and wept.

Make no mistake - this was intended to be misery. I opted out. I’m a rebel, and judging by the TSA’s behavior, I must be punished.

To read the letter I wrote to my politicians, click here.

The letter below was sent to my elected representatives (with the exception of Bobby Scott, who has never responded to my letters, except to ask for campaign contributions).

The TSA must be abolished. They’re out of control. And they’re an egregious violation of our fourth amendment rights. Further, it appears that their raison d’etreis to inflict more harm on our economy, specifically by destroying the airline industry.

Recently, I flew out of Atlanta and ended up in the “random pick” line for the Nude-o-scope (or porn-scope, as some people call them). I told the TSA barker that - due to personal and religious beliefs - I wanted to opt out.

I was treated like a criminal and made to wait 45 minutes, while at least 50 passengers moved on through the Nude-o-scope. I asked if I could retrieve my belongings (sitting alone at the end of the conveyor belt) and was ordered to “Stand still and don’t move.” I asked if I could move to a position where I could at least see my things. Again, the woman screeched at me to remain still.

It was a miracle that my laptop, wallet, cellphone and briefcase weren’t stolen.

Forty-five minutes later, after I’d had my crotch and breasts thoroughly examined by a $9 an hour employee, I was free to go. The entire affair was very punitive, and humiliating and time consuming and emotionally distressing. When I retrieved my things, I walked into the women’s restroom and wept.

Make no mistake - this was intended to be misery. I opted out. I’m a rebel, and judging by the TSA’s behavior, I must be punished.

Please stop the abuses of the TSA.

Sincerely,

Rosemary Thornton

Continued from Part 1.

Beautiful women, such as my daughter, don’t need help in attracting men. As proved by my experiment, they can post a head-shot and write a meaningless profile and within moments, hoards of eligible bachelors will magically appear, sniffing around their virtual yard and begging for a date.

But Mother was right. Beauty does have a price. And sometimes, beauty exacts a price from men, too. Like 20 years of alimony payments.

Many of these newly-divorced men liked to tell an obviously well-rehearsed and emotional story about how much they despised the mother of their children. Speaking as a woman who’s read four billion self-improvement books, I can not imagine sharing this type of story on a first date, where you’re (supposedly) investing your best energies in hiding your personal psychoses and neuroses and bad habits.

“My first wife is such an unbelievable witch,” these middle-aged men would often tell me (and that’s “witch” with a capital B).

“She’s depressed and she’s depressing and she’s lazy and she’s crazy as a loon. And she sleeps half the day and she drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney and swears like a sailor and she’s a lousy mother, too. And she likes to eat cheezy fizz right out of the can. She’s really disgusting.”

On and on they’d go, telling me how utterly awful their ex-wife was. When they’d exhausted themselves, I’d look ‘em right in the eye and ask a single, simple question:

“What attracted you to her in the first place?”

Their answer was always, and I mean always, the same. Sometimes they used different words, but the meaning and import never changed.

“She was so beautiful,” they’d tell me with their eyes glazing over. “She was a real knock-out.”

The more troubled men would often continue with, “When I walked into a room with her on my arm, all the men would turn and stare. They were so damn jealous, their eyeballs would pop out of their head. Man, she was gorgeous.”

In Between Men, Eve Sedgwick says that men are often more interested in having a relationship with other men, rather than having a relationship with a woman. She says that a man’s sense of self-worth is fueled and fed by the envious gaze of other males. Women become pawns in a game, and Sedgwick says their purpose - in the eyes of men - is to cement the “bonds of men with [other] men.”

To read another excerpt, click here.

To learn more about Rose’s new book on internet dating, click here.

Weary of being judged and found wanting (based on nothing more than my thumbnail profile picture), I conducted a little experiment. With my daughter’s permission, I posted an ad at a popular internet dating site, using her gorgeous image and likeness. Her “ad” (profile) was carefully written, sprinkled with a few not-so-subtle suggestions that she was high maintenance and had some serious gold-digger leanings. Purposefully, I dumbed her down so she wouldn’t sound too interesting or too well-read. Her age was listed at 35.

Within 24 hours, she had more than 20 emails. By the end of the first week, she had 75 emails from 75 men, pleading for a response. Within 30 days, she had received more than 250 letters from men (ages 25 to 62)  who were begging to meet her.

After reading through this deluge of emails, I became incensed. I was an intelligent, capable, independent, interesting, well-read, well-traveled, self-educated, nationally known author, and men were ignoring my profile because I didn’t have The Look. In 24 hours, my daughter’s picture brought in six times the response my picture garnered in 90 days.

The majority of those 250 emails said, “Something about your profile really spoke to me.”

They were either liars or fools, or perhaps both.

If these men were even bothering to read the profile, they might have noticed that it didn’t speak to much of anything. It was fluff and silliness and trivial nonsense. Other men cut to the chase and waxed poetic about her great beauty. More than 20% of the emails included graphic descriptions of the men’s wealth.

One lonely soul wrote, “I’ve done very well in the stock market and I can provide you with all that you’ll ever want or need.”

Another man said, “Thanks to some very wise investing, I’m now retired and just hoping to find someone who wants to travel the world with me.”

Some were more blatant.

“I’ve got everything a man could want: plenty of money, a beautiful home and fine cars, but I don’t have you.”

Reading between the lines, it’s not hard to figure out the formula that these men - and apparently society - have settled on. You have plenty of beauty. I have plenty of money. We’re a perfect match.

These are the mathematics of a woman’s social value.

Some call this a “social price,” the sum total of our desirable qualities and attractive features, as judged by members of the opposite sex. But what’s a woman to do if she doesn’t have this supremely valuable asset of physical beauty in her arsenal?

I wish I had an easy answer to this. I don’t.

In Fay Weldon’s poignant novel The Life and Loves of a She-Devil, the protagonist Ruth Patchett states plainly, “As an [ugly] woman my physical match is an old, epileptic, half-witted man.”

Beautiful women, such as my daughter, don’t need help in attracting men. As proved by my experiment, they can post a head-shot and write a meaningless profile and within moments, hoards of eligible bachelors will magically appear, sniffing around their virtual yard and begging for a date.

To read the rest of this chapter, click here.

To learn more about Rose’s new book on internet dating, click here.

To read another excerpt, click here.