I'm cool. And I have proof.
Because I have a pacemaker and a defibrillator, I side-step the security devices at the airport and endure the mandatory manual pat-down. Otherwise, the security devices might jiggle the electronics in my chest.
Pause. Do not, I repeat, do not feel sorry for me because of the pacemaker/defibrillator. I feel good. I still ride my bicycle but I doubt I'll manage any more 70 mile trips. Ten miles do nicely. There.
Back up a bit. Minneapolis is enriched by many immigrants from nations that might surprise you. The Hmong from Cambodia. Somalians from Africa. Often we are surrounded with wonderful accents from our new neighbors. Like the original immigrants from the Scandinavian countries whose accents still lilt throughout the Twin Cities.
We were going through early morning security at the Minneapolis airport when this black security agent with what sounded like a Jamaican accent started saying: "Mon, you let the dogs out."
I'm hip. I had heard that music before. Hip hop, was it? So I snapped my fingers and repeated back to him: "Who, who, who let the dogs out."
The look on his face!
"No, mon, your pants are unzipped. You're letting the dogs out."