Doha delusion

I miss Madison. But not in a homesick way. More in a I-miss-how-easy-life-used-to-be way and in an I-miss-Kelly-Eva-Ariane-hugs way...

I'm watching Drama (with a capital D) unfold from the sidelines, eight hours after it happens, even when I'm somewhat involved. It's an interesting feeling.

I'm planning six months ahead, but don't want to talk about what happens a year from now.

I look Lebanese and am spoken to in Arabic, but all I know how to say is "hello," "thanks," "no," "girl," "sweetie," "peace," and "God willing."

I haven't been paid since I arrived in the last week of June, yet all I want to do is go shopping and buy a lot of pairs of fabulous high heels, which I can rarely wear here.

I crave American pop culture [which I never really used to cared about], products [Pepsi, which I never used to drink], people [whoever they may be], but am disappointed when they're not the same as they would be in the U.S., even though I know that nothing is (or can be) the same halfway across the world.

I'm calling my current state Doha delusion. Symptoms can last two to twelve months and may include periods of extreme good-natured fun followed by periods of angry boredom; the ability to ignore being stared at constantly; a craving for a deep tan; the feeling that people at home may be forgetting about you sometimes; the desire to wear an abaya and hijab at all times; jealousy of the experiences of friends in more liberal countries; an addiction to watching Scrubs online; constantly struggling to realize that you are, in fact, in the Middle East; the impulse to go on shopping sprees; occasional crying; forgetting to care that your favorite blogs are blocked; and an affinity for mango juice.