Eventually, I'm called over for my pat-down. "Do you want to do this privately?" he asks. "No, right here in the middle of the airport is fine," I say.
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"Resistance. Yes, I know," I say.
"Are any parts of your body sore?" he asks.
"No," I say, instantly regretting that I didn't say, "Yes. My groin. Very sore." Next time.
He feels me up. "Could you widen your stance, please?" he asks.
"Hey, I'm not in the United States Senate!" I say, widening my stance.
His search is fairly half-hearted. He spends more time stroking the back of my tie than he spends between my legs.
I ask, "Do a lot of people opt-out?"
"No, not many."
"People are cows," I say.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they'll do whatever the federal government tells them to do," I say.
"How come you don't go through the machine?" he asks me.
I give him several more answers than he expected:
1) I prefer to limit my exposure to radiation, which the back-scatter imager produces;
2) I don't think this new technology will stop terrorism;
3) I find the idea of the government taking pictures of my genitalia a discomfiting invasion of privacy;
4) I find the specific pose a person is forced to take inside the machine -- hands up, as in a mugging -- particularly debasing.
"Okay," he says, "have a nice flight."