Excuse me a minute while I recombobulate …

I’ve just gotten through security at “The Mike,” otherwise known as Milwaukee Airport. Here comes my suitcase down the conveyor belt, containing the NFC North title and Ndamukong Suh’s arse. Now a gray, plastic tub with my shoes, wallet, cellphone and other assorted Steven Kalas accoutrements.

That’s when I see the big sign. Huge block letters. Off to one side, hanging over a gathering of benches.

The sign says, “Recombobulation Area.”

And I can’t stop laughing. I say to Jonathan, my eldest son and travel partner, loud enough to be heard all around, “I’m feeling a bit discombobulated. I’m taking my stuff over there to get recombobulated.”

And now several travelers around me are laughing. The security guy who just patted down the suspiciously clandestine silver cross necklace inside my shirt looks down at his feet and shakes his head, chuckling and blushing, as if he should be responsible and duly embarrassed by this sign.

Well, somebody should blush and feel embarrassed, that’s for sure.

Are you kidding me? In moments like this, I really miss George Carlin. He’s the guy who wondered aloud about being “chalant.” You know, really uptight and anxious and worried. As opposed to being nonchalant.

When I dismilwaukee myself and get relasvegased, I’m thinking of holding a news conference in my backyard and burning my Oxford English Dictionary in effigy. Because this both cracks me up and makes me feel very dishopeful about the chances of rehopefulness for the King’s English.

Discombobulated is, indeed, an actual word. It means “to confuse or disconcert, upset or frustrate.”

OK, somebody wearing a tie and getting a paycheck actually decided that, in Milwaukee, if the security procedures confuse me, upset and frustrate me, or leave me feeling disconcerted, that there should be an area — an officially designated place — in which I could sit or stand until I’m recombobulated. Somebody actually signed an order and paid to have this sign made.

I wonder whether the person making the sign was laughing.

Now, normally, I’m very combobulated as I move through airport security. As you get older, you have more freedom to decide when discombobulation is necessary. And, at 57, I have very mature, well-developed combobulation skills. Not to mention that I really like it when the airplane in which I’m riding doesn’t blow up. So I just bleat peacefully, chew my cud and move through the line.

If, on the rare occasion that my combobulation starts to break apart, I almost never need a specific area in which to recombobulate. Again, at 57, I’ve learned to multitask. I can find the scattered pieces of my personal combobs and recombobulate them even as I’m reshoeing myself at the end of the conveyor.

But here, in Milwaukee, you are invited (urged? admonished? directed?) to go stand in a specific place to pull your psyche back together again. How thoughtful.

Seriously? They’ve had a lot of requests at The Mike from travelers who ask, “I’m very discombobulated. Where can I go to recombobulate?”

Well, I’ve got to go catch an airplane. So my son and I and the other lucky folks who have held a firm grip on our combobulationness move on to the gate. I wish only speedy peace and healing for those who must linger in the sanctuary of the Recombobulation Area.

Oh. OH! Maybe the guy in the tie meant to define an area where unexpeditiously rewardrobing people would pick up their security debris and get the hell out of the way! Oh, I get it! The guy in the tie thought inserting the made-up word “recombobulation” would sound more polite than a sign that said, “Ridiculously Slow People Area.” Meaning, if it takes you a day-and-a-half to gather your (uh, stuff) and put your shoes back on, then move your bee-hind over here so that the rest of us can move on with life.

Well, Mr. Tie, if that’s what you meant, it’s not working. Not one living person ventured near the Recombobulation Area during the several minutes I gazed in wonder at this new cultural, devolutionary oddity.

But, it was pretty funny. I appreciated the belly laughs.

Now, the DMV. They need a Recombobulation Area.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of “Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing” (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at 702-227-4165 or skalas@reviewjournal.com.