PJ Vogt

That's water, just so you know.

I'm using my hands to dump airport sink water all over my underwear, my accent, my thighs.

Okay, definitely mission accomplished.

I wandered back out onto the concourse, dignity gone, and headed towards Shruti, who was standing by security.

I'm in JFK Airport with a very wet crotch, going through security.

I look like a pervert.

Oh, I hope they have the right, yeah, they have the right machine.

There's the machine.

The security line was surprisingly short.

We were quickly moving towards the conveyor belt for carry-on luggage.

I'm worried my crotch is going to dry, but I've been a lot longer.

Suddenly, there I was.

Over here.

Belt off, laptop out, shoes on, a new world change.

I shoved my tray towards the agent overseeing the conveyor belt and stepped into the body scanner.

Hands over my head, I heard the swoosh as the antenna rotated around me, imagined all the invisible millimeter waves bouncing and returning back to a machine that searched me now for anomalies.

All of this in just a couple seconds.

I stepped through.

I looked at the agent who motioned for me to stop.

I whipped my head around to the screen and saw it there, my gingerbread figure, with not one, but two boxes, a cautious yellow one, an angrier red one, both of them exactly around my crotch.