The week I nearly lost my head, my cell phone and my identity

Everyone knows the saying, “You’d loose you’re head, if it wasn’t attached.” You say it to the scatterbrained person who locks their keys in their car, or misplaces their homework, or forgets where they put their glasses (often the same glasses that are on top of their head) – I am ashamed to say, this person is me.

Fortunately, my forgetfulness seems to come in waves. I will go months (okay, maybe not months, but definitely weeks) without forgetting/losing a single thing and then suddenly, within the span of one week, my life will become bedlam. This was the case back in March.

Case in point #1: It was spring break 07. The break kicked off with my 21st birthday, which my friends and I spent in Toronto. I know, I know, “Why go to Canada when you’re finally legal to drink in the U.S.?” You see, I was the first of the four of us to hit the big 2-1, therefore, Canada it was. We arrived in Toronto on my 21st birthday. Once at the hotel, I opened my presents – many of which were 21st birthday paraphernalia I could wear that night out – you know the typical “21 – buy me a drink!” crown and of course the “21 and ready for fun!” sash. I didn’t see myself wearing these obnoxious items in public unless completely intoxicated; however, I was forced to throw them in my purse just in case.

The first official bar we went to was about a 15 minute cab ride, which if I recall correctly had a hefty fee. We walked up to the hip Hemingway’s Pub and were greeted by the bouncer. Each of my 19 and 20 year old friends whipped out their only-legal-outside-of-the-U.S. driver’s licenses and made it in without a problem. I however began digging through my over-sized purse in search of my 100% legit license. After the beads of sweat began surfacing on my forehead, I finally looked up at the bouncer and kindly said, “It seems as if I forgot my ID, do you think I could get in anyways?” With zero sympathy the husky fellow replied, “No ID, no entry.” By this point my friends began hassling me with annoying comments like “How on earth did you forget your ID? It’s the one night you need it!” I politely explained to the bouncer that it was my 21st birthday, that I deserved to get into the bar, that we just drove hours and hours so that we could celebrate together and how if he didn’t let me in it would absolutely ruin my birthday. The man was stern and only replied with a half-hearted, “Sorry.” Suddenly, it dawned on me, I had a crown and sash that proved my age. I grabbed the items and shoved it in the man’s face. I exclaimed, “Why would I have these if I wasn’t 21?!?!” After just a little more coercing, the over-sized man finally let me into the pub to enjoy my birthday celebration.

Case in point #2: 3 days later we were back from Toronto. The second half of spring break was to be spent in Rhode Island and then in NYC with my best friend Krista. We were flying out of PGH at the crack of dawn for Providence to visit her sister. It had been awhile since I flew and I was really dreading the flight. We checked in, made it through security, grabbed some breakfast at Au Bon Pain and finally headed to the waiting area to prepare for departure. As each row began to be called I decided I just had to pee, but decided the teeny-tiny stalls on the plane just wouldn’t do. I told Krista to get in line while I quickly ran to the bathroom. I did my thing and was back in a flash. We boarded the plane, found our seats, buckled up and waited for take off. My palms were just starting to sweat when I realized I did not have my phone on me. I turned to Krista in hopes of having handed it to her at some point. She reminded me that I had it when we were sitting in the waiting area. It was then it dawned on me that I carried it to the bathroom and left it on the sink. I jumped to my feet and dashed down the aisle towards the front of the plane. I was stopped by a way-too-cheerful female flight attendant who asked me to find my seat. I snapped back, “I have to go to the bathroom!” She said, “Oh, miss, the lavatory is straight back behind you.” I exclaimed, “No! Not this bathroom, the bathroom inside the airport, I left my phone there!” She told me I could try asking the male flight attended at the head of the plane if there was still time. I ran to him just as he was making the final spin on the giant steering wheel that locks the door of the plane. He said it was too late. If I’d like, I could call the airport when we landed in Philly for our connection. Then he asked me to return to my seat.

Feeling defeated and more worked up than I would ever like to be again on an airplane, I headed back to my seat with my head hung low. Taking off, knowing my poor phone was just sitting in a cold, stainless steel bathroom really left a pain in the pit of my stomach.

We arrived in Philly where just those not continuing onto Providence were permitted to get off. The male flight attendant gave me instructions to get off the plane and at the end of the tunnel there would be a man waiting with the number for PGH Int’l Airport. I headed off the plane, made the call, was told no one could find my phone. I then attempted to head back onto the plane feeling defeated once again, but not first before getting grilled by some nasty airline attendant in the tunnel who wanted to see my ticket before letting me pass. After a little explanation I was back on the plane and off to 4 days in Rhode Island and NYC – completely phone-less.

Four days later, I had the surprise of a lifetime when I returned to PGH airport and decided just for the hell of it to look in the lost-and-found closet. Low and behold, my phone somehow, remarkably made it from the bathroom upstairs all the way down to the lost-and-found closet on the first floor near baggage claim. It was if I had my own personal airline attendant angel looking after me.

Case and point #3 (last one, I promise!): It was about one week later that I experienced the loss of all losses. Like just about every other college student in Western Pennsylvania, I was at Station Square on March, 17 celebrating good ole’ St. Patrick’s day. I had officially been 21 for a little over a week and was taking full advantage of it. The day was filled with silly shamrock antlers, t-shirts declaring any ounce of Irish-heritage, green-dyed beer and those obnoxious plastic blow horns. By 6 p.m. my friends and I were exhausted. We headed back to my boyfriend’s frat house at Pitt for a 3-hour long group nap. I awoke from the nap feeling slightly refreshed and ready to get the hell out of the cesspool that the frat house had become from the hardcore celebration. Before leaving, I checked my purse for my keys. Those I had. What I didn’t have, however, was my wallet. My wallet that had about $50, 2 credit cards, my driver’s license, my debit card, an endless supply of reward cards, my library card and drum-roll please…my social security card. Yes, yes, I know you are never supposed to carry it around, but, as you all know now, I was in Canada just one week earlier. I had it on me in case I encountered any problems at the border. So there I was feeling filthy, slightly-hung-over and terrified that as I sat there my identity was being stolen by some drunkard who stumbled upon my card in Station Square. I made the dreadful call to the parents who first lectured me about carrying such an important document around with me and was then instructed to cancel every credit card, followed by, go to the nearest police station and file a report.

After each instruction was completed, I was ready to drive home feeling defeat like I had never felt before. Before leaving, however, Eddie (my boyfriend) suggested we drive down to Station Square just to look around. I thought it would be a complete waste of time, but figured I didn’t have much else to lose. When we pulled up to the strip mall, I hoped out of the car and instructed him to just wait there. By this point it was midnight. The place had cleared out and looked like a disaster zone. The only place I could think to look was some dive bar I went in to order a rum and coke around 4 p.m. when I just couldn’t take beer anymore. I walked into the place that just hours before was filled wall-to-wall with a sea of green. By this point there were just a handful of people left. I surveyed the floor with no luck. I was just about to walk out when I figured I might as well ask the bar tender if anyone had turned my wallet in. She asked me my name and told me to hang on a sec. I watched her walk over to a tall filing cabinet and saw a beam of light, as if from Saint Patrick himself, shinning down on my wallet. She informed me that someone found it on the floor and turned it in. I feverishly checked the contents – everything was accounted for. It was truly a St. Patty’s day miracle!

Perhaps a moral to sum this all up…What I learned from these events was not that I am a complete scatterbrained mess; but, instead, that I am one lucky S.O.B. BUT, more importantly, what each of you should have learned is NEVER, EVER trust me to hang on to something for you…unless, that is, you don’t mind me misplacing it, or loosing it in a bathroom or dropping it on a bar floor:)