This weekend I flew to and from Birmingham, Alabama. I’ll get into the reasons for the trip in another post. I found myself suffering from two profound moments of paranoia.

The first was when I landed in Birmingham and waited at the baggage claim carousel for my luggage to appear. When I left Orlando Southwest’s system of checking luggage seemed odd and confusing. After getting my boarding pass from an automated system I was told to bring my baggage to the x-ray machine on my way to the gate. Ahead of me were two massive machine in two different locations and the attendant at the check in area was hoping back and forth between four different kiosks at once and did not give the clearest direction which of these was the one where I supposed to leave my belongings. I was perplexed why I was suddenly turned into a baggage handler when there was a perfectly good conveyor belt sitting directly behind the check in area.

As I stood in Birmingham, 480 miles from where I last saw my clothing the fear creeped in that I had put the bags at the wrong machine. I had this image of one bag in Tahiti and another in Nome. I knew, by looking at my Southwest napkin with the little map showing all the destinations they flew, that was impossible. The other image crystal clear in my mind was a trail of my clothing and belongings trailing behind the ripped and torn remnants of my duffel bag.

With each bag that slipped through the vinyl curtain I could feel the anxiety increasing. Each squeal and bump of the serpentine conveyor belt hammered the images of lost and destroyed luggage deeper and deeper into my brain. Although it was crisp and cool in the airport I could feel flop sweat dropping down my back.

The sight of my luggage appearing safe and intact quickly turned my mood fright to righteous indignation aimed directly at myself. “You idiot,” I yelled silently at myself, “I knew it would be safe all along!”

The other moment of paranoia came on my return trip and proves just how pervasive the messages we are fed about terrorism are. As I waited by the security checkpoint I smiled at the young parents and their infant child in front of me. At first I didn’t think twice about the child seat covered by a homemade quilt. The line moved along, the family ahead of me moved up but the car seat remained untouched.

Ever thoughtful, L leaned forward and tapped the father on the shoulder, “You left your car seat over there,” I whispered.

“That ain’t mine,” he said trying to keep his baby quiet.

My eyes bulged as they turned to look again at the car seat. I was sure the blanket with cute little kitties and elephants was swaddling C-4. As my heart pounded louder and louder it proved the soundtrack for the Joel Schumacher fueled images of explosions and death. And here I was inches away from the next Ground Zero.

I HAD TO act. I HAD TO do my part. I quickly leaned over to the Homeland Security person at the security checkpoint and whispered to him so as not to cause a panic. In my most serious but controlled voice of authority said, “No one seems to be with that car seat.”

With the look of a teenage checkout person at the 10-item express lane just as you lay down your 13th item he responded, “Sir see that man over there; it’s his. I know all about it. Please get back in line.”

“You idiot,” I yelled silently at myself, “I knew it would be safe all along!”