By: Stephanie Reynolds
“We’ve won!!! You can wear shoes through TSA!” said the family text from my second-born male heir. Wait, what? He never uses 3 exclamation points. He never ends two sentences in a row with exclamation points. This was huge.
Had my son been involved in a class action suit against the TSA? Had he been taken aside after a staunch refusal to remove his shoes then begrudgingly let through? Did I miss watching my little Dapper David going up against the Goliath of FAA bureaucracy on C-SPAN?
I’m not exaggerating. If anyone could cajole a government into better behavior, he could. I remember when he was 4 and everything was a pleasant, but extensive negotiation. “It’s time for bed, son” I would say, my voice heavy with young mom exhaustion. He would look me in the eye, take a slow, readying breath, tilt his head slightly and begin his “We all just want what’s best here” opening statements:
“Mom.” He would say soothingly. “Now, I know you want me to go to bed…”, affirming that he understood and was incredibly, deeply sympathetic to the pitifulness of my plight. “But…What if…”
At that point his eyes would shift frantically as he scanned the room to find the best way to make a win-win for both of us “…I stayed up and helped you <insert random chore here> instead? That would be good, wouldn’t it?” He would say the last in a rush with a beaming smile and shining blue eyes that conveyed his assurance that this was, indeed, the best course of action for all of us and there was no way I could disagree.
And his logic always threw me off balance. “Hmmm. Well, I do need the towels fold….WAIT, wait, wait. No, I appreciate your offer, but it really is time for bed.” He never created a fuss, just looked sadly resigned that the perfect solution to all our woes was discarded, and I was left to soak in my alarm that I was almost outwitted by an emotionally astute preschooler. Again.
So please understand, my fabulous folk, that I was not being hyperbolic earlier. He really could coax the ugly out of a hornet. Our great nation has no idea that THE ambassador of all ambassadors lives in a cute, rented house in suburban Denver and probably needs a haircut. Give him a weekend, and he could have North Korea sending us handwritten Valentines cards with all the i’s dotted with little hearts.
The Wonder Sweetie replied to the group text with “Was it a hard fight?” WHEW! It wasn’t just me who missed the memo about our son’s TSA battle. After being reassured that I had, in fact, not forgotten any Senate hearings that he was subpoenaed to, I asked for context.
“We went through TSA in Denver and they said there was a new rule where you don’t have to take off your shoes.”
Fabulous! A week too late for me, but fabulous!
I had flown out of Huntsville the day after spending a gorgeous 4th of July with many of y’all at the Red White & Boom to see this very son and his amazing bride. I did, indeed, have to take off my hiking boots.
“Rookie…” you might be muttering at this point about my choice of footwear. However, I have a good reason: I was determined to “travel light”. Somehow the idea of taking only a backpack made me see myself like one of those winsome girls with beachy waves traveling with little more than a toothbrush and a passport—fancy free and 30 years younger.
It certainly didn’t mean me roping The Wonder Sweetie to vacuum seal socks and drawers in the kitchen while I checked and rechecked the airline regs, then squishing and remeasuring the bag while he kept saying “Babe, are you sure you don’t want to just take a suitcase? Look, I already know where one is…Steph. Just. Take. A. Suitcase.”. What? And destroy my internal image of youth and incredible packing skills?? Never.
But my gigantic hiking boots would never fit in the pack, so on my feet they went.
So yes, I had to take off my shoes. I also had to go through the full body scanner. I pinged the scanner, my overstuffed pack pinged the Xray, and both my bag and I were pulled out of line for a (much) more thorough exam.
I want to say this, though—the TSA agents I dealt with were incredibly professional. The lady TSA agent explained everything before she patted me down and was neither overly friendly (which might have been creepy considering where she had to pat down) nor cold. She was quick and waved me on.
The gentleman TSA agent who ran my bag through the “Bomb or Hair Barrette” machine had a calm confidence and slightly warmer tone than the lady, which made sense because when she had to do her part of the job, it was a risk-frisk, an unknown. By the time he saw that neither my drawers nor my bag were a threat, he could afford some geniality. Both of them did their very tough jobs well.
Honestly, I am fully expecting another Scan-Frisk-Scan-Clear the next time I fly. But at least I can keep my boots on.
By: Stephanie Reynolds, Athens-Limestone Tourism Association
June 20, 2025
