Losing the Shoes

With all the health issues that seem to be hunkering down on me, I do have something to look forward to. Next month, I am going on a cruise with some girlfriends from high school. There is nothing more enticing than getting away from it all. With that on the horizon, I decided to apply for TSA Precheck, so I can avoid taking off my shoes and walking around on the dirty carpet along with being felt up by strangers. Gross. I applied online and then scheduled my in-person interview for yesterday.

I was told to bring my passport and documentation to show my name change. Bringing my marriage certificate seemed like the proper choice, so I gathered myself along with the ridiculously large boot I am wearing, and headed to my appointment. Of course, the office is at the end of, what appeared to be, a five mile hallway. At least, it felt that way as I drag my left leg along.

As I open the door and slowly make my way to the appointment window, I am met with “resting bitch face”. It seems that this is possibly the only way you get hired as everyone had the same expression. I smile, tell the lady my name, show her my passport and take a seat. Delightful ambiance.

No one calls my name, instead a woman bellows “next” and since no one else is sitting in the waiting area, I assume it is me. I am correct. Again, met with “resting bitch face”. No greeting. She thrusts her hand out to retrieve my passport and marriage certificate.

“What is this?” Her tone is dripping with annoyance.

“It’s a marriage certificate. I was told to bring proof of my name change.”

“I can’t use this.”

Now I have adopted the “resting bitch face” look and my tone is dangerously sharp with a sprinkle of sarcasm.

“Why is that? It has my maiden name on it and the passport shows my married name.”

“The names don’t match.” No shit, Captain Obvious.

“I am aware. See, maiden name and then married name.” I speak slowly and point as if she is a preschooler, so she can visually see the name change.

She exhales as if she might explode. Fortunately, one of her coworkers comes in to assist. It seems that the chick I am working with has no idea what she is doing. Instead, of admitting that, she becomes bitchier, but we are able to move along and process my application. Christ. On. A. Cracker.

She continues to spread her sunshine as we finish up telling me that I should know within two weeks. I worry that her face is stuck in a permanent scowl. As I get up to leave, I put on my best smile and say, “Have a fabulous rest of your day”. I emphasize “fabulous” and beam at her. She may have grunted at me. Not sure. Gratefully, I leave the incredibly toxic office. I wonder what their turnover rate is. Color me curious.

Maybe that was a test. Maybe they unload their bitchiness on applicants to see how they respond. I think I passed. I think they are impressed with my self-control. Sure, I talked to myself all the way to the car. Bitching about the bitches that I just had to deal with and yes, I probably looked a little crazy to those who witnessed it. But, I maintained my decorum when confronted with such assholiness, so that’s winning in my book. And, by the way, me, myself, and I are all in agreement about how well I handled it.

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