US Airways, Chris Brown and Robert Mugabe all belong in Hell

Never check your bags with US airways. You may never see them ever again. This is, unfortunately, my situation right now. 

Coming back from my DC/NYC trip, I checked my bags, filled with my favorite clothes and shoes (including an amazing pair of red wedge slingbacks I had just purchased in NYC), my tourquoise necklace I had made in Jerusalem, my macbook powercord, my cell phone charger, my chi flat iron, my new puma and nike running clothes (bought for the marathon), new Gaultier perfume, perscription meds...the list goes on and it's all gone gone gone. All in a brand new samsonite roller. I've felt like vomiting for days.

When I told my cousin who works for the airline about my predicament, he said that I'll probably never see my bag again especially if it went through Philadelphia. He said the disgruntled workers have routinely set fire to bags or thrown them in the river. Needless to say, I felt fantastic after talking to him.

When I brought up "the Philadelphia issue" with a US airways employee who has been helping me, she became very silent and then said, "Ma'am, the situation in Philadelphia has gotten much better as of late." She then told me more horror stories about what the workers did to bags. I couldn't quite figure out why because the more she rambled on, the sick feeling in my stomach grew and the more certain I became that I would never, ever see my bag again. 

It's been three days and there is no sign of my bag anywhere. Please pray they find it...I'm really freaking out.

 

 

I think that I may end up in Washington D.C. afterall. My initial timing was just a bit off. 

Last Saturday, I ran the national half marathon there and as I ran with the hordes past the capitol building and the Washington Monument (all the while praying that I would regain feeling in my hands and feet), I began to fall madly in love. It was like a void that I didn't know could be satisfied was beginning to be filled by being in this amazing city. The love grew as I ran through Columbia Heights and past the wonderfully rowdy residents with tables of free cups of beer for the runners and the happily bundled people cheering from the sides carrying signs that said "Your feet only hurt from kicking so much a--".  

These people are so great it brings a tear to my eye.

The museums, the people, the food (Ben's Chili Bowl)---just the overall vibe---I can't get enough of it. It was 5 days of soul-satisfying goodness. So after my masters program, D.C., here I come. 

Humbled

Remember that one day in high school, the one where you go to the doctor and he's like "you have acne--let me give you drugs?" Well, that day never came for me as the perpetually clear-faced teenager. It came last Friday.

After achieving real adulthood--actually having medical insurance not offered by a university--and after vowing to take better care of myself, I decided to go to the doctor to check out some moles. Being as it is that cancer runs in my family and that I have worshipped the sun for the last 25 years, the responsible thing to do would be to have my skin checked out.  And since my life seems to not be going at all as planned, I figure skin cancer is the logical next step for me.  

So after a good 30 minutes in the waiting room, another 15 in the private room in which I was placed by the nurse, Dr. Benton walked in as I was sifting through his cabinets and looking behind his jars. He began asking the routine questions, looking through my medical history, and listening to my heart and lungs. When the reason for my visit came out as "skin," without skipping a beat he said:

 "Well, as you are well into your childbearing years..."

That first blow came suddenly and without warning. The second was to follow without even starting a new sentence. 

"it would not be wise to put you on acutane." He was intently inspecting every inch of my face with his eyes and fingers as he continued, "But I have several other options for you that should take care of your acne."

He then proceeded to prescribe me three medications and dole out instructions for using them. When the initial shock wore off, I regained enough composure to ask about my moles. He looked me over for about 15 seconds and said "Oh, you're fine."

I asked him about the mole on my right cheek. I asked about having it removed possibly.

"Right, right," he said in an understanding tone, "It IS awfully prominent isn't it. We can take care of that." And he proceeded to describe the procedure. 

A few moments later I was scheduling a couple follow up appointments to check on the efficiency of the acne meds and another to have a mole removed. I came into get my skin checked for cancer (what I thought was a very adult, "real person" thing to do) and left feeling like a pimple-faced teenager embarrassed by her visage and just hoping and praying that her acne would clear up before the prom.

In high school I was so grateful for my clear skin. I thought that I had cheated the system somehow. Little did I know that my awkward ugly stage wasn't in my past (well round 2, anyway), but awaited for me in the future. I hope this means I get to "blossom" at some point. I'm still holding onto that high school hope that there is a growth spurt waiting to happen in my chest. Fingers crossed.