I’d like to say that I took my vacation at the perfect time.
Last Thursday I boarded a plane and headed west to Phoenix. I was headed towards a three-day weekend, to be filled with golf, football, and probably a few drinks.
But a funny thing happened while I was soaking it up in the desert. Superstorm Sandy hit the east coast. Now, I’m the first to admit: There are worse places to be stranded. It’s been between 80 and 86 degrees and sunny every day that I’ve been here. I’m in a buddy’s condo, watching Sunday Night Football at 5 in the afternoon. Life is good.
That is, except for the fact that I’m stranded hundreds of miles away from my loved ones. As they were battening the hatches, I was watching ASU blow a late lead to UCLA at Sun Devil Stadium. As they were braving the storm, I was going for a jog along McDowell mountain. It isn’t fair. People are trying to get their belongings out of flooded homes, garages, and offices—and I have a tan.
I’ve had to ration my exposure to news updates and storm watches. It was putting me on edge. I checked in with my girlfriend, my brothers, and my parents throughout the weekend, and tried—from a distance—to convince them that it was going to be okay. And it was—but I don’t feel any better. I worry about my hometown out on Long Island, parts of which were underwater long before the storm hit. I worry about my city, with power down, and transportation halted for days, possibly weeks.









