“Ahmad, Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte. Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte! Ahmad!” I am not the biggest fan of Starbucks, but I do appreciate chocolate chip cookies and free WiFi. What I do not understand is why patrons place an order and then, while the barista is crafting a designer brew more complex than a Boeing, they vanish, kicking off an unrequited game of “Marco Polo.”

“Ahmad, Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte. AHMAD!” Ahmad must be a Middle-Eastern hit-and-run Houdini, as the only remaining caffeine slurpers are a group of young women donning Uggs and yoga pants. As I look up from my computer, a barista with a fire in her eyes that could scorch a Buick plops a cuppa joe on my tiny table and barks, “Ahmad, your Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte.” Immediately offended that she assumed I would order a Pumpkin Spice Latte (or a “PSL” to the elite insiders), I politely said I was not Ahmad as she stormed off.

In an effort to avoid the human version of Frogger, I waited at a crosswalk in Capitol Hill on a late summer evening. A guy in his late 20’s or early 30’s came up and stood next to me. I could feel him staring at me, and so I finally turned to acknowledge his inquiry. Without skipping a beat, he said, “Hey, man, do you need help hailing a cab? I know it’s difficult for minorities.” I looked over my shoulders, did not see any “minorities,” and realized he was definitely talking to me. “Thanks, but I’m taking the Metro. And…I’m white.” As if I had pulled his grandmother’s head out of a grocery bag, he beamed a look of shock in my direction and said, “You ARE???? Oh, sorry man,” and quickly skittered across the street.

While I love airplanes, commercial flight is not a favorite pastime. The aircraft are crowded, the seats are small, and I always get squeezed between Mr. Seatbelt Extender and a plague-ridden sneezer. But the fun truly begins before even breaching the jetway. When I hit the security line, I’m typically diverted to the special checkpoint. I’ve been fabric swabbed for explosives, sniffed by a Beagle, scanned enough to retard my thyroid, held in the Plexiglas case of emotion, and patted down so many times it should warrant a second date.

After visiting my sister in Greece in 2007, she asked me to ferry a suitcase back to the States for her to lighten her load upon return from Study Abroad. As I passed through the X-Ray machine at Athens International, I was plucked from line and escorted by an agent to a nearby table. “Sir, did you pack your own bags?” she repeatedly asked. I thought nothing of it until she popped open my sister’s suitcase and the first item removed was an Ethernet cable, followed by a woman’s bathing suit, various knick knacks, and a handful of tampons. Fantastic.

After explaining that the contents were indeed “mine,” I was marched to a walled off holding area. When the agent put on rubber gloves and asked me to unfasten my belt, I quipped, “You could at least buy me dinner first.” Top 10 Things Not to Say to Airport Security. Finding NO humor in my nervous joke, she made a mumbled call on her radio in Greek, and in a flash, Ruben Studdard’s doppelganger appeared, snapped on a large pair of gloves, and led a scouting expedition that would have made Lewis and Clark proud. Once he had double-confirmed I was not harboring anything too unnatural (Ladies ;)), I was sheepishly allowed to board.

I have a beard, a good tan, and a dozen more similar stories. I get it. Sometimes, people don’t know what the hell I am. I’ve been accused of being Indian, Middle-Eastern, Jewish, Greek, Italian, Egyptian, Mediterranean, and “The Whitest White person that works here” by one of my former patients. (For the record, I’m Caucasian of Irish and Italian descent – sorry if I upset any bets.)

While I do find my racial ambiguity amusing and don’t take offense to any of my experiences, it has taught me to be less judgmental of appearance regardless of the circumstance, and reminds me that we are subject to the judgment and presumptions of others in every interaction. Perhaps an occasional reminder of sensitivity isn’t a bad thing. But before I attempt to change the world, I’m going to finish Ahmad’s PSL.

If you find me in a suit, you might want to offer your condolences, as there’s a good chance somebody died. Paper thin fabric, strangling neckties, and Pilgrim shoes are not my scene. And for whatever reason, a freshly pressed shirt attracts food stains with the same voracious affinity that a Walmart draws in mullets and IROC Camaros.

A part-time (read: beer money) job interview came calling recently, and to my dismay, jeans and a sweatshirt were not going to cut it. I plucked a suit from the back of my closet, shooed away the moths, and did a dry-fitting just to ensure textile integrity.

Houston, we have a problem. And not even Tom Hanks could rescue this mission. If these suit pants didn’t explode shortly after button-up, they certainly never would have survived the friction of re-entry. Must be the pants, right? Incorrect, sir. Six pairs of pants later followed by a meltdown that would have made a teenage girl swoon with confused pride, it was confirmed: I’ve swollen like a brined turkey since my last funeral.

Thank the good god of knitted garments that late on a Wednesday night, suburban Kohl’s was still open. (And at 10:30pm, they’ve got the “chunky-procrastinator” market cornered.) Fifteen minutes later, I was the proud new owner of a snazzy button-down and a pair of slacks that preemptively donned elastic built into the clasp. America!

The next morning, I stopped by a coffee shop to kill a little time before my interview. As I traded the cashier money (and dignity) for a slimming banana in lieu of a pastry, the middle button on my virgin shirt base-jumped off my midsection and rested lifelessly on the hardwood. Well, shit.

But oddly, this is when the day took a turn. Neighboring the coffee shop happened to be a dry cleaner. While it was only a drop-off center, the guy at the counter fortunately had nimble fingers and a needle and thread. He swiftly reattached the button, laughed at my misfortune, and then refused payment.

With my chest now properly restrained, I confidently aced the interview and landed the gig. Later, a woman at Wawa told me, “Mmm, Baby, purple is your color!” Then not one, but 11 classmates commented on my new threads. (Yes, sheer surprise forced a retrospective recount.) And just when I thought my day had reached its pinnacle, the barista at Starbucks (where only the WiFi is free) handed me my Double Chocolaty Chip, simply saying, “This one’s on me.”

Maybe the day’s events were purely coincidental, or perhaps the purple shirt possessed some kind of “Hecho-en-Mexico” magic. (I’d like to think the latter.) But one aspect was apparent: when you make an effort, people notice. Whether it is sprucing up your exterior, taking the time out of a busy day to drop a compliment, or lending a hand to some seemingly insignificant task, rarely does an action go unseen or unfelt. I’d encourage taking that opportunity. It might just make someone’s day.

As a 9th grader, the only phone numbers I got were those etched on the bathroom stall. And half of the time, no one answered.  On Public Displays of Affection, I was hardly the expert. Never mind that this was my first newspaper assignment; I was straddled by the onus of mingling a few hundred words that suggested my knowledge of affection transcended the warm nose of the family dog.

Certain that I was screwed (and not in a way that would lend journalistic credibility), I sat down the night before the deadline to a blinking cursor that taunted me. I typed until I was bleary-eyed, blessed it with spell check, and with a pat on the ass and a smooch goodbye, I fired it off to the editor.

When the article went to print a few weeks later, my cynicism and sense of humor were surprisingly well received. Cranked out a few more articles and found myself with my own column. Before I knew it, I had a penthouse office, a garaged parking space, and I was swimmin’ in women. Alright, fat kids are poor swimmers, but I did place in a few writing competitions. It seemed that a few people enjoyed reading what I scribbled on to dead trees. And for the rest of high school and the duration of college, a hobby took on life.

Now, as I stumble into my third decade of consuming oxygen, I have a B.A. in English that I have never utilized professionally and a monthly student loan payment that rivals my Ramen Noodle budget. (If you find any grammatical errors, remember, I went to a state school.) I have spent the past seven years working in medicine, with hopes of attending medical school.  It has been just as long since I have put a single word on paper. Despite over 14,000 hours in clinical medicine and countless patient experiences that I hold dear, I have failed to secure a seat in med school. Turns out, the MCAT has nothing to do with cats and a lot to do with Organic Chemistry, neither of which I understand.

For years I have been smothered by advice about writing, but a seemingly small breath that has stuck with me is simply, “Write what you know.” It is cliché, I know, and should probably be stamped on some motivational poster with fluffy puppies frolicking through sun-kissed wildflowers.

At this stage, it would be an understatement to say that I have no idea what I am doing with my life. But I do know that I have missed writing, no matter the topic or the audience.  For me, it is therapeutic, introspective, and simply amusing. With that in mind, this blog serves as my first juvenile attempt at regaining the practice.  I can’t promise to charm, entertain, intrigue, or offend my reader(s), but it is my hope to do so. Consider it a public display of reflection.