September 5th, 2005, 12:40 pm

Journalist takes a Holiday

Today is Labor Day — the first day that neither I nor anyone else expects me to work.

It’s my first real day off since beginning my job back in October. I had planned to do something touristy and blog-worthy — catch some of those Atlanta sights, like Cyclorama, the High, or the Margaret Mitchell museum.

But my date for the day flaked on me. I was angry, and a little hurt, but when I got off the phone, it suddenly became another matter. My leeves breeched, and all of sudden, the sobs that I had held back for years came pouring out. Today wasn’t just Labor Day — it was the birthday I rescheduled because of work, the New Year’s eve that I spent sober, taking notes, the visit home that I spent glued to the computer, helping to set up a company blog.

Today is the sum of all of the parties I’ve missed, the nights I’ve gone home early, and the people I haven’t met. My house — a broken dishwasher, piles of boxes, and a moldy peach — surrounds me with its humble, insistent expectations. It waits.

Somehow, the media bug bit me. I was hooked, and I worked hard because I wanted to, because I believed in the potential of journalism, and I loved my work. But now, two and half years later, I realize that I haven’t got much else. A cell phone full of people I’ve been too busy to call back. An inbox in which the mail from strangers overwhelms the few messages from friends. It’s been too long to write now, hasn’t it? What could I say?

I wouldn’t write about this if I didn’t think it was just me. So many of my young journalist friends have moved for their jobs, put personal relationships on hold for jobs, worked late on nights and on weekends and on holidays. It’s a crushing way of life sometimes, so when we get together, it’s unbelievably fun.

I guess, for once, I don’t have a point I want to hammer home. I just want to say — young journos, can you feel me?