No, my Sir has not told me to take off my belt – thank goodness!

You may already know that I wear a belt under my clothes every day. I put it on when I get up, take it off when I go to bed. The belt reminds me that my Sir encircles and holds me all the time, even though he’s not physically here. I often touch his belt when I feel anxious or overwhelmed and it helps settle and ground me.

I would be devastated if he withdrew that symbol of our connection. Fortunately, that’s not what happened. This is a whole different story.

I guess it started Monday night when I was out for a walk. I tripped over a broken chunk of sidewalk and went down hard, landing face down on the left side. So I hurt my right toe, but everything else was on the left – cut my head just above the eyebrow, scraped and bruised my hand and my knee.

Nothing broken, so that was all good. I have a brace for my wrist that I only have to wear sometimes and an impressive black eye.

I was traveling just a few days later, flying. Both my doctor and my daughter insisted that I use a wheelchair at the airport. So even though my toe was perfectly fine by the time I left, I planned to use a wheelchair.

But I was a bit worried about my belt. I have TSA pre-check, so I don’t usually have to take my belt off, but occasionally the metal detector will go off or they’ll randomly select someone for additional screening. I could picture it.

*** I’m pulled to the side, my little baggage left on the conveyer belt.

The questioning, “Do you have anything metal in your body? Shoulder, knee, hip? Are you wearing anything metal? A belt? Take off the belt.”

And I picture myself raising my shirt, and everyone can see that my belt is not attached to belt loops, no, I’m wearing it under my clothes next to my skin.

Immediately suspicious, they demand to know, “Why are you wearing that belt, ma’am? It doesn’t look like you need one.”***

And what would I say then???

Immediately, I began to think of stories I could tell.

“It’s a way to reduce weight, the belt reminds me not to eat too much.”

“It’s an anti-anxiety device, my therapist suggested it.”

I know, this is a silly thing to worry about. What are the odds of this even happening? And – although I hate to acknowledge it – what’s the point of lying about it?

Sigh. Stupid honesty.

But fine. I decided if that did happen, which it probably wouldn’t, I would just say “Oh, it’s symbolic reminder that my boyfriend is always with me.” And I’d be totally nonchalant about it – and what could they say? Not a damn thing. Ok, ‘my boyfriend’ is not exactly the right term, but ‘my Dom’ or ‘my Sir’ would definitely be TMI. ‘Boyfriend’ would work.

And I quit worrying about it.

So I get to the airport. Me with my black eye – turning purple now – and a brace on my wrist, walking a bit slowly because my knee is still bandaged, pulling my two small bags behind me. Apparently, I look like I need help because they offer me a wheelchair as soon as I get through the door. That was actually lovely and kept me from having to stand in a long line with my bags.

The attendant wheels me briskly through the airport to the TSA pre-check, where she steers me to the front of the line. As directed, I stand and step through the metal detector – which immediately goes off.

I panic.

It’s happening! It’s the belt setting it off, I know it is, I knew this would happen, and now.. So I try to forestall it, “Maybe it’s my belt,” I say, starting to try to ever-so-discreetly take it off, hoping no one notices…

But the guard stops me.

“It’s probably not the belt,” she says. “It’s probably the brace.”

And I’m saved. With a sigh of relief, I take the brace off my wrist, walk back through the metal detector without setting off an an an alarm, belt not exposed.

And we continue to the gate, zipping along in my wheelchair.

Studies show that 85-91% of the things we worry about never happen. I remind my clients that we are hard-wired to look for danger, to anticipate problems, and that’s a safety feature, a survival skill. And I know that when we’re anxious we are usually over-estimating the risk of the bad thing happening and under-estimating our resources to deal with it.

Yet none of that knowing kept me from worrying about being exposed as a weird person, ending up as a story for TSA agents: “Then this one old woman came through, she was in a wheelchair and had a black eye, and…”

But f**k it. (I know, language. But I didn’t say it…)

It doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks. I can’t always control what happens, but I can always manage how I show up in that moment. It’s probably good for me to be reminded of it. 😊