For those of you curious about how I made out on my three flights following the bionic boob incident (well, it wasn’t really an incident, it just was what it was — see A Further Look at Airport Screening Issues), I’ll tell you now.

Yawn, stretch. What? I am still rather tired from all of our travels. It isn’t every day I fly across the Atlantic and then turnaround and fly to another country two days later with my family. For those of you well-seasoned travellers who do this all the time, oh you jet setters you.

So here’s the rundown.

Having set off the metal detector at Heathrow, I tried to keep one step ahead of the game at Logan Airport. As we approached the TSA agent checking passports prior to queuing for security (that’s waiting in line for you Americans, hacer cola for you Spaniards), I considered my options. The agent was a young woman in her twenties. All business but didn’t seem mean. So I decided to plunge right in with my story. “Er,” I said, “just to let you know, I have prosthetic devices that sometimes set off the metal detector. Any advice?” She told me that because I have two young’uns traveling with me, I would normally be sent through the metal detector rather than the body scanner (these scanners were rolled out in 2010 and Logan was the first airport to receive them). I haven’t researched this but maybe this is to avoid exposing children to unnecessary radiation although the scanner emits such low levels of radiation that it is supposed to be equivalent to what you’d be exposed to flying in a plane for two minutes — big deal. “Tell them that you want to go through the scanner, not the metal detector, but don’t say why.”

Okay, I thought. So when my turn came around I told the dude I wanted the scanner while Bill and the kids went through the metal detector. “Hip or knee?” The man asked cheerfully. Um, no, sir, TITS. Really? I guess it just wasn’t on his radar that I hadn’t chosen my very very very short haircut on purpose. Which I suppose is a good thing because it means that he just thought I was a regular gal, rather than a gal who just killed the fuck out of cancer by getting sliced, diced, nuked and blasted. Just a regular ordinary gal with a chic buzz cut asking for a body scan because of that ole war injury. Being frank and as I have told you, not easily embarrassed, I looked right at him and said “breasts.” I’m pretty sure he regretted having asked me, and I almost felt sorry for him. But it serves you right if you are going to speculate.

I stepped into position, arms over head à la Cops except there was no police cruiser. I held my position and wondered what my expanders would look like to the TSA agents reviewing the images. Would they know? Would they really have received the training that was supposed to have been rolled out last year?

Well you know what? They let me right through with my metal tatas, no questions asked. So I guess they did get their training after all. Score one for the US of A.

Next flight was from London City Airport to Barcelona. It was our first time at London City and I have to say it is a very pleasant little airport. I was really feeling it. Would definitely choose to fly from there again.

Having had success on my previous flight with the up front and frank “I gots a metal rack” approach, I decided to try that tack again. I informed the agent. He reassured me that all would be fine and let me show him the ID cards for my expanders. This time I bypassed the metal detector altogether and went straight to pat down by a female agent. And then we were on our way.

And this brings me to the final experience in Barcelona airport. I was particularly curious to see how this one would shake down because it was the first time that another language would be involved. I came prepared, having asked my excellent multilingual college friend Mark to give me the best translation he could come up with for prosthetic breasts. I speak Spanish but man am I rusty and I didn’t want to make a slight error and tell them I had prosthetic chickens or a bionic ass or something that might rouse suspicion.

We inched forward in line. A young man checked our passports. I dove right in. “Tengo protésises mamárias,” I told him. I continued in Spanish, “sometimes they set off the metal detector.” I smiled pleasantly and awaited his reaction. He told me not to worry and said that if I preferred I could step aside and remove them. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or just didn’t get it. Maybe he though I just had a stuffed bra or something. I neglected to tell him that removing them would involve an operating room and a plastic surgeon. In the meantime he sent me through to speak to a very pleasant woman in her forties or fifties. I repeated my story but this time added that it was due to breast cancer. She “got” it. Informed the agents and sent me on through. And this time I did not set off the metal detector.

But my husband did because he had all sorts of loose change in his pockets that he forgot to take out. It was rather nice to watch someone else get the full pat down for a change while I just waited patiently with the girls (and by girls I mean my children, not my boobs, in case you thought I was being cheeky).

So there you have it. A different experience at every airport. None terrible; some rather pleasant. I won’t get my permanent, no metal involved, silicone tetas for at least another five-six months, so there will be even more opportunities to fly the friendly skies with the twins. Perhaps they should get their own passports so that I won’t have to say anything to anyone. Speaking of which, my passport is nearing ten years old and you know what that means: time to renew. My photo is going to look a might bit different from the last one, but at least I have some hair for the event. By the time I take the picture I’ll be killing it with a sweet little pixie cut à la Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. But I will not be carrying Satan’s child, thank goodness.