Ok Karma, I've done my part.

The 10k started out rainy and miserable. I was wearing my superannuated Memphis State sweatshirt (they are now called University of Memphis, therefore this sweatshirt holds close to my heart) and it smelled like a wet dog. I was hungover. Damn Irish Car bomb.
It was a great experience. So many supportive Richmonders selflessly cheered us by the thousands with abiding smiles on their soaking wet faces. You felt a sense of community and pride for a good cause. I get so much joy out of doing races for cancer, breast cancer, aids, etc. I think next year I'm going to run it.
When I got home today, there was a sketchy black bag ontop of my car. It was getting rained on and I felt sorry for it. It reminded me of that Ikea commercial with the lamp sitting outside in the rain. It crossed my mind that perhaps I was being set up (I have mean weirdo neighbors) but I decided to look through it, being the snoopy gal that I am. There were 2 lovely glass bowls (you know, bowls), a scale, a pair of jeans, and a phone. I didn't know what to do, so I set it on the ground in hopes it would grow legs and return itself to its rightful owner. It was just too sketchy. After a couple hours in my house, I went outside to my car and the bag was still right where I had left it, unscathed and desolate. I took the bag into my car and drove to Nathan's parents house to have dinner, all the while pondering what I should do with it. Part of me wanted to keep some of the goodies inside, but most of me wanted to give it back to whomever was missing it. After dinner I checked the phone inside of the bag and someone had been desperately trying to leave text messages and voicemails. When I got home I called some number and a snobby girl answered. She probably didn't expect the bag to fall into the hands of a nice person. Her friend came by my house shortly afterwards to get reclaim it. This girl had to have been 18 or 19, a zitty little freshman most likely, with glazed red eyes and a pubescent skater punk by her side for refuge. Whoever's bag it was was obviously a pot dealer. The bottom of the bag was covered with a thick layer of little pretty green and red flakes. The old man in me wanted to tell the girl to be more fucking careful with such a valuable bag, but I didn't. Part of me wanted to slip a piece of paper with my number on it into the bag so that I could be rewarded, heh, but I didn't. I simply gave it back. And it felt great. Those kids are lucky it didn't fall into the hands of a perilous ganster or a Richmond bum who would've sold all of the contents for a bottle of cheap whiskey. I guess it doesn't matter what's in the bag, be it legal or not. What matters is doing the right thing. Foregoing my temptations to benefit myself with what was inside, it's worth it to be smiling right now, knowing the puerile teens of Richmond are taking a celebratory pipe to the face because of me.