I stood in the middle of Miami International Airport, arms spread, palms facing up, feet on the two yellow footprints painted on the cement floor. The female security agent was a foot shorter than me, her brown braided hair came only to my chin. She pulled on latex gloves. "I'm going to pat you down," she said, "But when I come to sensitive areas, I'll use the back of my hand." I nodded. "Would you prefer to move to a private area?" she asked, her eyes softening. "No," I shrugged. "This is fine." My husband was behind me in line - and another security agent was being summoned to give him the same inspection. We had decided to opt out of the x-ray machine that was scrutinizing everyone attempting to fly out of Miami. The funny thing is that even after passengers were x-rayed, another agent was patting them down anyway. Regardless, the whole process made me feel like a common criminal. Between the spread-eagle pat do...