Whenever I’m sick, all I ever want is to be back home with my mom, who I know would take care of me and make sure I got all of the fluids and medication and whatnot.
The first time I really felt that way was right around Election Day 2008. I remember it so clearly. Since some of the other staffers were out of town, I was in charge of the student paper and had to cover a number of campaign events, including a Sarah Palin rally in which my New York Times lanyard wasn’t viewed particularly favorably by some of the attendees. On the day of the election, I stringed for the AP* by covering voting polls and then the Democratic election party.
And all the while, I battled against a rather awful case of bronchitis. I was hacking up a storm, and I probably shouldn’t have been working the entire time.
When the election was over, I was out for the rest of the week, wishing I could just teleport the hundreds of miles home to Las Vegas.
Six years later, I still feel the same way. It’s likely because I hate the responsibility of it all. There’s no one else to take care of you when you’re down. I had to go to the store to get my own medicine, I had to make my own chicken noodle soup. The only reprieve was that I happened to go to Giant when a Peet’s Coffee truck was parked out front, so they made me tea.
But it’s all a part of growing up, right?
*In hindsight, what I really should have done was said no to the AP gig and done stuff for the Sagebrush. It was selfish and I’m sorry, old Sagebrushers. And AP, I *still* haven’t been paid for that gig.