Fear Not, Superman. I've a Pocketful of... Chiastolite?

My wife got a ticket recently. It seems there was a slight problem with the back end of the vehicle. After a brief discussion as to whose fault it was, it was decided that I would be the one to take care of it.

While I've already relayed my previous courthouse experience with you, this one was considerably different.

Due to detrimental weather conditions (a nice, slippery layer of sleet), there was no line with which to contend. That turned out to be my only saving grace since no one had to wait on me.

I was smart enough to disarm myself of all pocketknives before leaving the vehicle. I also dumped a couple of pens (all metal, of course) in the car, as well as some scraps of paper with notes scrawled on them.

After a slippery journey from the car to the actual courthouse door, I was greeted at the metal detector by two nice women who looked as though they could kill me with their hands tied behind their backs.

I started the emptying process with my inside jacket pocket. Five minutes later, as I finished with my jacket contents, security lady number one pointed out that my jacket also had to go in a tub. That would have been good to know before I dumped those pockets!

With the jacket off, I took off my school ID which hangs around my neck by a lanyard. I then proceeded to empty all four pants pockets.

"And the belt, honey," security lady number one reminded me.

I started with pocket one, though I should have started with two. Two holds my change, and that takes a while to dig out. Instead, I started with pocket one which contained my cell phone, coupons and several other general scraps of paper. I went counter clockwise from there.

The next pocket yielded some dollar bills, more coupons and more scraps of paper. The next is, simply put, the wallet pocket. It holds nothing of value.

Later that day, after I had emptied half the change in pocket two, I had both security ladies' full attention. I felt their eyes on me, scrutinizing the three buckets I managed to fill. Security lady one's hand grasped a fourth tub, but I had only one last item.

"And that leaves the rock," I announced, pulling a small, blue rock from my pocket and dumping it ceremoniously into the little square tub. Both ladies just stared. "It's chi... A rock my son gave me. I've carried it for maybe three years now!"

If I didn't think I hadn't worn out my welcome by then, I would've explained that the rock is chiastolite. Allegedly, it 'repairs chromosome damage,' as well as some other health benefits.

I never knew my chromosomes required repairing. I'm still not sure if my son was trying to send me a message or just give me a pretty, smooth rock he found on a gem mining excursion.

Whatever the answer, I pondered over the state of my chromosomes as I walked to the clerk of court window. Which ones have been fixed? Which need to be fixed? And how, exactly, do chromosomes get broken anyway?