Now that almost everyone is carrying a concealed weapon, my profile status has changed dramatically. I liked it in the past when I was profiled by law enforcement officers, and others as a harmless, little old lady.

I am a little old lady, well, maybe not so little anymore, but at least a medium size or medium plus, and not ancient, but definitely past middle age, and dammit, I wish profiling was still accurate. Who would think that I look like a dangerous felon? As it turns out, many people do.

I went to renew my passport and a gargantuan security guard asked, “ Are you packing?”  

I replied, “Not yet, but I’m thinking about what to take as Norway may be warm in the daytime, but cool at night.” 

Then he demanded, “Open your purse.”

After rummaging through my old tissues, three lipsticks, a dozen coupons, two pairs of glasses, nose drops, a half eaten candy bar, a measuring tape, numerous old receipts, and a wallet, he said to his cohort, “She’s clean, no gun.”  

A gun?  Wow! I was surprised, and perversely flattered, that anyone would think I was tough enough to carry a gun. That would never have happened in the past.

Security threw me off once again as I was going through the airport. The guard, a woman who looked like she spent half of her time working out, and the other half eating ice cream, pulled me out of line, and started to pat me down. 

“What’s this, I exclaimed, I have no metal on me, not even a hip replacement.”

The hefty woman replied,  “You have a suspicious bulge around your middle.”

I cracked up!  My expensive figure flattering underwear was not doing its job. The tightening quality was supposed to make my stomach appear flat, but it had gotten all bunched up around my waist. Did I look like I was carrying contraband?  Did I look like a mole?  What I really looked like is someone who needs to lose at least ten pounds!

My old lady tendency to drive too fast got me in trouble. A policeman pulled me over for speeding in a residential zone. He peered in my window, asked for my license, and barked,  “I’m calling for back up.”

I replied, “ Really, I’m kind of flattered, do I look that threatening?”  

He snapped, “Don’t try to be funny, we nailed someone else too.”

That made more sense, but for a moment, I had the wicked feeling of being perceived as dangerous. Later, when I looked at the pricey ticket, I got really mad as under description, the cop wrote, white hair. The nerve of the guy. It’s really, Miss Magic, Blonde #9.

Age confusion occurred when I wanted to treat my nephew to a couple of cartons of cigarettes. They turned out to be so expensive that only a millionaire, or fiscally irresponsible person, could afford to buy them. My thankfulness to my nephew put me in the latter group.

The clerk asked for my ID, and I laughingly said, “That’s very flattering, but you must really need eye glasses if you can’t see that I am decades beyond the legal age.”

He countered, “ Ma’am, it’s the law, we have to ask everyone.”  

I snapped haughtily, “The law wasn’t well thought out, because isn’t it obvious that many people are way over the age limit?”  

The clerk, who looked like he hadn’t been out of diapers very long, stated with authority, “Too bad lady, rules are rules.”

Maybe I’d do better if I toughened up my appearance and carried a concealed weapon.  Oh, how I miss the past when I was profiled benignly as a sweet, innocent, harmless, old lady!