Knifed

Hidden deep in the folds of a corner behind a zipper, I have carried in my purse a wee jackknife for about 25 years now.

That knife has come in handy innumerable times, not only because it has a corkscrew, but because its blade held its edge beautifully all these years.

To be fair, my little knife usually gets only one use: it's my apple-cutter-upper, and since it's fall now, I need it every day. It's likely because my dad always cut his apples into pieces that I prefer my apples sliced, too. It might also be a fear of losing a tooth or some concern about tidiness. Who knows, but I'd just rather use a knife.

That knife is what told me I was a suspected terrorist. When I took a trip to Mexico with my girlfriends this spring, I stashed it in my checked luggage. While we were on the beach, I tucked it into my beach bag. There was no threat, but, well, it was Mexico after all, and it made me feel better to have the knife with me. Also, the knife came in handy to help remove an unwanted bow from one of my fellow travellers' swimsuits. Well, it was handy until I stabbed her by accident. You'd be surprised how many women on that beach offered us a bandaid.

On the way home, no doubt drunk on sunshine, I neglected to move the knife back into my checked luggage, and when I was stopped by Mexican security, I was genuinely confused why my bag was being x-rayed multiple times. I was bemused until the guard pulled my knife out to show me, and I nearly passed out, visions of a lengthy Mexican prison term dancing in my head. Instead of cuffing me, all the guy did was pitch my knife into a big bin of similar banned items and waved me on my way. My shocked and embarrassed face must have helped my case.

Yesterday, I felt like a suspect for a second time when I picked out a new knife at Canadian Tire. I decided against the shiny red Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew, since most of the wine in my life these days comes with a screwtop or in a tetrapak. Instead, I chose a simple folding model which reminded me of the one my father used.

Here's where the suspect part comes in: after I chose the knife, the clerk had to find the model of my choice from inside a locked cabinet below the counter and then he was required to accompany it and me to the checkout. I couldn't carry my own knife to the front of the store. It was policy, he explained, even while the knife in question that I might stab and rob with was packed behind a thick swaddling of hard plastic.

And here's the other thing: now that I have it home, I can't open the blessed packaging. I need my jackknife to open the packaging on my jackknife!