There I was, my size 8.5 Nikes touching the invisible line - the point of no return, literally. One more step and I would again have to subject myself to violation, made to strip in order to go any further. For some reason, an invisible energy forbade me from taking another step. I looked to my right, and there, sitting on a stool behind a lectern-like security station was the burgundy and black clad TSA agent. My confused look seemed to have provided a certain degree of amusement to her, after all, she has been made to sit and monitor exiting passengers for hours at a time. I imagine I was just the remedy for her monotony.
"Excuse me," I begin, "if I go out this way to get to gate 26, will I have to come back through security?"
Her response, "It depends," meant one of two things, either I was her comic relief for the hour, or I was about to hear a deep philosophical explanation on our existence and what it means to "pass through." I was relieved to discover it was the former when she directed me to the gate that provides a shuttle service to the next concourse. On the shuttle I smiled at my good fortune to not have to be subject to a near disrobing in order to get to my connecting flight.
To accommodate a gate change, an hour later I was back on the shuttle bound for the original concourse, this time without my smile.
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