At least it was a good sports week for The Lady V

Yesterday, I watched The Chicago Bears earn a spot in the Superbowl Championship Game. And then I boarded a flight from Boston to Washington and waited on the Logan runway for almost two hours. I hate when that happens. We finally landed in the snowy, icy District (more than two hours late) and I quickly moved to catch a cab. Except that D.C. cab drivers are big fat hairy wussies and the line for a taxi was more than 30 minutes. Seeing as I only live a couple Metro stops from the airport, I decided to take the train, then a cab from the train station. Except that when I got to my home train station, there were no cabs. None. Zip. Bupkus. And when I called the Alexandria Yellow Top Cab Company, I was told it would be a two hour wait. So, I trudged myself and all my luggage through the ice and snow down the 15-minute walk to my house. And then the skies opened up and poured forth cold rain down upon my sorry ass, and made me curse increasingly louder through the streets of Virginia. I formally apologize to my neighbors.

But all that time sitting on the runway, in the air, and on the train made me think about the somewhat drama-filled and awkward weekend I just spent in Boston. (Not that it was all bad -- I witnessed the happy union of two dear friends whose relationship I've seen develop from its infancy. It really is a precious moment to see two people who have chosen each other for all their character strengths and weaknesses finally wed! Congratulations, Beavergrads!) And I met up with a few old co-workers from my Big Red days. We caught up, I shared my latest dating drama and my friend says to me, "Well, you know, you have other dating options too. Remember my friend Tim that you met when I was visiting DC?" "Oh, you mean Tim who was engaged when I met him?" "Yeah, well, he broke off the engagement and thinks you're really cute. He has a thing for Asians so we don't really know why he was ever with that girl." Great. I am so doomed for categorical failure in matters of love. I should use my life as the basis of a tragic TV mini series brimming with sappy dialogue narrated by David Allan Boucher, sell it to Lifetime or Oxygen, and live in the lap of luxury until the end of my days. I actually started writing the mini series in my head while I traveled, calling it My Heart as Football. But instead of being about the messy state of affairs in my heart and love life, it ended up using an inappropriate number of stretched metaphors involving fumbles, bad calls, penetrated defense, multiple (in the) sacks, and physicality on the field. Since I'm not nearly that slutty (even though sometimes I wish it, because I secretly aspire to be the next Washingtonienne), I’m going to spare you that literary pain and just hope The Gang of 100 provides better fodder for your reading pleasure. It’s only the first week of classes, so just give ‘em some time. Something is bound to happen…