I'm WAY too old for this

Wow. A trip to Montreal to sightsee with our two exchange students. What could be simpler? Drive up Saturday, wander the city for a day or two, then drive home. I would get to check out old haunts, meet with an old friend, the girls would see a new city and visit another country. Right. Except someone forgot to check to make sure that the girls took the appropriate paperwork. And they were only missing one little paper. No problem getting into Canada.
So we had a great time in the city and started back this morning. We pulled up at U.S. customs, where we found out that the little paper we left behind was a very important little paper indeed. We were directed to the outlaw area where they pull your car apart and treat you like a criminal. Now, I always feel guilty even when I'm not, so you can imagine the impact of parking in a lot full of men in uniform (which by this time looked pretty much like Nazi uniforms to me) who were barking staccato orders at us: park there! turn off your car! put the windows down! take off your sunglasses! unlock the doors! get out of the car! open the hatch! While we waited for our next order, I took a few steps away from the car...WHERE ARE YOU GOING? one of the gestapo yelled. (He really yelled. I was sure I was a criminal. I was pretty sure I must have done something terrible that I couldn't remember...early onset Alzheimers, maybe?) We scurried back to the car, and without a word, one of the uniforms pointed to the customs office. As I walked away from our car, I realized the hatch was still up. "Should I leave the hatch up?" I politely asked. 'WHAT ARE YOU ASKING ME FOR? IT'S YOUR CAR! DO WHAT YOU WANT!" the closest uniform replied, his nose about an inch from mine. I closed the hatch. The man inside the customs building silently took our passports, pressed a few computer keys and said. "You're all set. You can go."
Whew! That was easy. I was relieved that this whole thing was going to turn out well. No paddywagons today. We calmly returned to the car, got inside and I started the engine. A new face appeared at my window. "Turn off your car," this uniform said. I complied. "Roll down your window." I complied. "We're just doing a drug check," he said.
Oh, well. A drug check. No problemo. This will just take a second. WooHoo! Go for it, boys! (Good thing the government hasn't developed the capacity to read minds. I would have been in the slammer for sure.) Yet another uniform lead a huge German Shepherd around the perimeter of the car, the dog sniffing intently. As he rounded the front of the car, I put my hand on the ignition, ready to be on my way.
The dog paused by the front tire on the driver's side. He stopped, sniffed at the tire, then sat down, quivering with excitement while he stared at the tire intently. My hair started falling out in clumps. "Good boy," the uniform said. He bent over, peered into the wheel well, and said to uniform number one, "There's a bag of ecstasy underneath there."
By this time, I was practically bald. The ground was covered with fallen hair. (Well, not exactly covered in hair, as my hair has been thinning in recent years. But it's still soft, and quite--oops, back to the story). I put my head out the window. "WHAT???" I yelled. My voice sounded like I had just sucked in half a tank of helium. "WHAT? DRUGS!!! I DON'T DO DRUGS!! I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THEY CAME FROM! OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. DRUGS. DRUGS. DRUGS. OH MY GOD. DRUGS. OH MY GOD." (I am quite articulate under stress.) My thinking process is slightly faster than my speaking process in a pinch. I tried to imagine life in Dannemora, picking rocks, working in the laundry, being some big old woman's girl toy. I wondered if the exchange students would be in prison with me or if they'd be deported. I briefly toyed with the idea of turning to the girls and saying, "What did you do? These must be your drugs." My better half won that battle.)
Uniform number two thanked the sniffer team, took a latex glove out of his pocket and very slowly and carefully pulling it onto his hand, leaned over and reached behind the front tire. The hand came out holding a baggie full of white powder. The entire time I continued to sqeak, "OH MY GOD. DRUGS. DRUGS. OH MY GOD." I wonder if they'll put me in a high security prison, I thought. Is it possible to escape from one of those? I wonder if I could outrun the dog. Do these guys have guns?
The uniform straightened slowly, the baggie of white powder in his hands. He glared at me and said, "Just a training exercise for the dog, ma'am. You're free to go."
I opened the door a crack to scoop up my hair from the pavement (I hear they can do great things with wigs these days), started the car, and drove away at a speed lower than the posted limit, every nerve in my body singing. It was a long ride home. For the first 30 minutes I drove 30 miles an hour because I thought if I got pulled over for speeding I would die. Then I drove about 100 miles an hour because I couldn't control the affect of the adrenaline on my gas pedal foot. I alternated fast and slow for all 300 miles. I feel much older tonight, but at least I'm not in a 6 by 10 cell with a roommate named Bertha.
And I'm pretty sure up at the border crossing tonight, there's a group of customs agents gathered around a TV, eating popcorn and drinking beer, hooting at the video of the old lady with the babes getting pranked by the drug in your tire routine.