No one has taken a lipstick away from me since the sixth grade.  Back then Sister Jeannette Nadeau told me that I was not only too young for lipstick, but that tube just wasn’t my color.  

The airport security chick hovering over the gate agent didn’t feel quite the same way. “No gels.  No liquids,” she said, in the same tone of voice every airport official was using the day after the terrorist attacks in London were averted.

“Not even my gluestick?  It’s kind of a dry gluestick.  I’m gonna need my gluestick.”

“Put it in your checked bag or I will keep it,” she snapped. 

I didn’t argue with her. No one on my flight was about to argue with her. Instead we crouched over our purses and shuffled through our briefcases for every stray gelatinous object. Then we lined up at the gate and watched the TV guys demonstrate how the ingredients for a bomb could be assembled in the restroom of the plane. How the detonator could be disguised as a cell phone. How the terrorist could return to the most advantageous seat and blow up himself and the plane at will. Then we watched talking heads yak about the death toll among our servicemembers in Iraq. 

Suddenly, I was surrounded by people who wanted to talk. All day I had new friends at the airport who wanted to talk about Big Gulp cups, shampoo and water bottles.  

“You know, my husband e-mailed that I shouldn’t really be going to Boston this weekend,” said a Marine wife. “He kept asking me ‘What if something happens to you? What would I do?’  As if he wasn’t flying over Iraq every single day.”

I let the conversations go on around me all day, took part in them even.  I was glad talk and talk and talk and not  let myself think about the details of the plot outlined in the paper.  

Maybe everyone was. Because I didn’t hear one person talk about the terrorists.  No one remarked on the complexity and resourcefulness of the plan.  No one was at all concerned over the level of surveillance that took place in London to catch that group. No one mentioned luck.  

Instead we spent our time hoping out loud that they would confiscate Gameboys next and the obnoxious children who play them with the sound on. We noted that Sept. 11 meant that we didn’t suffer airline food anymore so maybe this London thing would mean that we wouldn’t fight for room in the overhead compartments.  We made a continual listing of what had been thrown away, tucked away, done without.

“They took my Chapstick,” a guy with a mustache moaned.  “What could I possibly do with a Chapstick?  A Chapstick is the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man of cosmetics.  A Chapstick couldn’t hurt anybody.” 

We all nodded, glad to mock the bureaucracy. When our plane arrived (late) and departed (later), I dug in my carryon for a pen and a notebook. Two days ago I dug in this same bag and pulled out a pair of scissors during the flight without even thinking about it. I cut out a recipe from a magazine. No one said a thing.   

Now I’m giving up my gluestick. I am glad to give up my gluestick.  I’d be more glad still if it actually meant we were any safer.  I can’t imagine the billions of dollars that would have to be spent to make air travel 100 percent safe.  I can’t imagine the law enforcement measures that would have to be created to keep up with the ingenuity of such a smart and motivated enemy.  It’s much, much easier to focus on the loser movie and having my seat returned to the upright position.