I am mostly a patient person. Yesterday was a test. I failed.

Seasoned traveler that I am, I’ve navigated “U.S. Customs and Border Protection” procedures countless times upon re-entry to the U.S. My strategy: Visit in-flight lavatory prior to touchdown. Hustle past sluggish rookie travelers. Documents in-hand and completed in ink. A positive attitude. And patience.

My Frankfurt trade show concluded, the Lufthansa Airbus 340 has just landed in Orlando. I’m spending the weekend with my stepdaughter, Sandy, and her family.

A Virgin Airways 747 is parked at the next gate. Mental note: most passengers ahead of us at Immigration will be Brits. This is good. I hear music as I approach the Immigration Hall. Nice touch, Disney. Welcome to the happiest place on earth.

Brits call them queues. We call them “lines.” No matter what you call them, these are frickin’ long. Countless children sprawl on the floor. Not a good sign. After many hours on a trans-Atlantic flight, kids don’t settle on the floor unless they’ve been here awhile. Good practice, kiddos, for the Magic Kingdom to come.

A sign directs U.S. Citizens to a single Immigration booth. That line snakes around the back of the Immigration Hall. Seasoned traveler that I am, I choose one of the shorter “Visitor” lines adjacent to an unmanned booth. When they open up that booth, I’ll jump ahead of everyone.

I count six young families ahead of me. Surely, family groups will be processed faster than singles or couples. Especially here in Orlando – the happiest place on earth.

The process for visitors is interminably slow. Scan passport. Thumb though pages. Examine entry documents. Stare at computer monitor. Ask questions. Scan fingerprints (right hand only) on biometric screen. Scan the thumbprint. Take photo (“glasses off, please”). Ask more questions. Type something. Stare at monitor. Ignore fidgeting kids. Ask more questions. Finally, the “thump, thump” sound of the stamper, permanently inking the foreigner’s passport with a smudged souvenir of entry. Welcome to America.

Meanwhile, back in the queue, I second guess (and third and fourth) my choice. Self-talk goes like this: “Should I move over there? Breathe, Marilyn, just breathe. Relax your shoulders. Well, at least I won’t have to wait at baggage claim. Glad I don’t have a connecting flight. Relax your shoulders. Damn! I should have moved to that other line. Too late now. Good thing Sandy isn’t meeting me till tomorrow. Blah, blah, blah.”

Oh, my God! The Immigration officer, a Filipino-looking lady, is now calling for a Supervisor. Not good. Filipino-looking ladies are tough. I should have known better than to choose this line.

The guy behind me, a refugee from the “U.S. Citizen” line, made his move about ten minutes ago. He’s almost first in his line. He waves and smiles. I fake-smile back at him. Grrrrr.

I knew I should have switched to that other line.

Why don’t they open the next booth?

Breathe.

Meanwhile, “Imelda” and her Supervisor have decided the nice British couple and their two young children pose no threat to national security. We inch forward.

The U.S. Citizen line is still the longest. I think about telling those rookies that they can go through a visitor line. Someday they’ll learn.

I’ve had enough. I take a deep breath and move to another line. My new guy is much faster than Imelda.

Finally, I’m next!

Passport scanned, two quick questions and, “thump, thump” – I’m in! He hands my passport back to me with a smile. Welcome to America, indeed!