Even though we slipped by relatively unscathed, 2004 taught me not to fuck with hurricanes. Katrina enforced that.
90 miles off the coast of Tampa, less than two hours before landfall, Charley suddenly veered eastwardly and made its second landfall on Captiva Island- the island my family vacationed every summer since I was four- instead of Tampa Bay. While we breathed a sigh of relief, it proceeded to rip across central Florida, the second storm in a series that basically gutted the state.
Having lived in Florida my entire life, I knew the hurricane season routine; it’s a part of life. You housed friends and family without qualms when they had to evacuate, hunkered down to weather the storm, and lent a hand for the aftermath- because you never knew when you would be on the receiving end.
Some think we may be overdramatizing this, but those who are breezing through Irene and hoping for a day off Monday likely have never experienced the unpredictability that is a hurricane. I pray to whatever superior figure in my head that they have the right attitude, but as a born and raised Floridian, I’m expecting the worst and hoping for the best.
Almost every morning there is a Nickelback video playing at the gym. And every time there is, I can’t help but think that if for some reason they filmed a movie about the band, Nic Cage would play the lead singer perfectly.
Being on the indifferent side of a relationship doesn’t induce as much as guilt as you think it would.
Either my heart is old and cold, or I really am just a jaded bitch. But I always thought I’d be the hopeless romantic who’d twirl herself around any man’s finger who stops her mid-stride and mid-conversation just to look at her, who proclaims how beautiful she is across a room filled with his friends.
I truly believe Mom knows best, so yesterday morning when I couldn’t decide whether my 98.9° “fever” and aching body warranted a sick day I was rather tempted to give her a call.
As an adult, you really don’t have the holy-shit-I’m-dying moments that you do as a child. Or maybe you do but you’re much less dramatic about the whole ordeal. But since I wasn’t hallucinating, running a cool 104° or projectile vomiting, I couldn’t decide whether I should suck it up or just take a day to sleep it off and get back into my normal routine.
When I was a kid, I had horrible allergies but was never just sick- I was SICK. Vomiting profusely for hours until I was dry heaving and crying, praying death would appear in the form of Jonathan Taylor Thomas to end my suffering, sick days were not fun. At first it was fantastic; I was ALLOWED to drink Diet Coke and Gingerale and watch a few rented movies from Albertson’s back-to-back.
…but then the fever would rise and all of a sudden my father would find me in a random room in the house (most often somewhere tiled) with my face pressed against the cool floor, muttering to myself.
So given my usual temperament when I fall ill, it was a slightly difficult decision to call out- as I crawled back into bed I scolded myself for being such a baby. And then I woke up, and it was 9:30, and I decided it was probably the best (sadly, the most adult) decision I’d made all week.