Tomorrow, I’m braving the experience of flying on an airplane. No, I’m not afraid of flying. What I dread is the TSA—Transportation Security Administration that exists solely to keep America safe… and humble. (And secure jobs for people who secretly wanted to be Gestapo agents, only with more authority.)

It starts with the security line. I shuffle forward with other travelers like cattle on a conveyor belt, peeling off layers of clothing until I’m in danger of being arrested for indecent exposure. Shoes, belt, jacket, dignity—all in the bins. By the time I get to the front of the TSA line, I am separated from all my essential travel items like ID cards, wallet, passport, cell phone, and deodorant, which have passed through the scanner and are sitting unguarded for anyone on the other side to pick up. Not only that, but I’m standing in a crowded public place where people are seeing more of me than my doctor ever has.

With fear and trepidation, I step into the X-ray machine, a high-tech contraption that can see through metal, fabric, and my soul. I envision invisible gamma rays rearranging the molecules of my body and causing cancer. The TSA agent gives me instructions that sound simple—“Feet on the yellow marks, hands over your head”—yet somehow I always stand wrong. Plus, I’m worried about what little clothing that remains on my body falling down while my hands are raised.

If I’m lucky, I pass through without incident. If not, I get the “enhanced pat-down.” This is a full-contact sport in which a complete stranger gets to know you better than your handsy high school prom date ever did. (In fact, I would have SLAPPED him if he got that friendly!) And they do it with a straight face, like this is just another Tuesday. Meanwhile, my purse is still sitting beyond my reach, where TSA agents are paying no attention to the purse snatchers who lurk at the end of the conveyor belt.

Of course, there’s the random bag check. TSA has the magical ability to find the one questionable item I forgot I packed. I routinely forget about the water bottle with a half-ounce of water remaining. I don’t mind if they toss the bottle, even though it means I’ll have to spend $10 buying another bottle of water on the other side. But my sunscreen is another story. I once had my sunscreen confiscated from my carry-on bag that I was taking on a cruise. It was in my carry-on because, on a cruise, you don’t receive your luggage until several hours after boarding the ship. If you want to sunbathe while you wait, it’s best to have your sunscreen. The agent spotted it on the scanner like a hawk locking onto a mouse, and you could practically see them puff up with pride. This was their big break—the moment all those hours of confiscating water bottles and nail clippers had been leading up to. With the gravitas of a rent-a-cop guarding the entrance to a mall jewelry store, they pulled it from my bag and held it high, as if to say, “Not on my watch, lady.” It’s all TSA’s fault that I got sunburned on my first day at sea. Meanwhile, they totally missed Hubby’s Leatherman.

By the end, I’ve been scanned, patted, and humiliated. I’ve done the TSA striptease, juggled my boarding pass, and tried to re-lace my shoes without falling over. And somehow, I’m still grateful—because as awkward as it is, it means I’m about to get on a plane without anyone smuggling in a suspicious tube of Copper Tone.