I’m confident my command of the English language is well-rounded for someone my age, yet when I hear Gen Z talk, I’m often lost in translation.

These are the kids born between 1997-2012 and I house three of them. Last week a headline in Variety caught my eye. It was titled, “Looksmaxxing’ Influencer Clavicular Walks Out of ’60 Minutes’ Interview After Being Asked If He’s an Incel: The Worst Sequence of Questions,” and it looked more like a bowl of alphabet soup than the telling of current events.

I read it multiple times and finally gave up. What is a Clavicular? Surely it was a typo.

I’ll state for the record that it wasn’t Variety’s promise of investigative journalism that eventually drew me in to the article. I was intrigued by how many words I couldn’t define.

Gen Z generates enough slang that some of their more popular words eventually make it into the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. By 2020, kids were using rizz, no cap, and sus (i.e. charm, no lie, and suspicious) in everyday conversation. Yet you’d be hard-pressed to find someone over the age of 35 using any of those words in a sentence. 

Still, to sound relevant and build street cred with my own kids, I try to drop Gen Z lingo every now and again. “Dayum … your ‘fit looks lit,” and “Yum … this meal is bussin.”

I’m a disgrace, my teen says, and maybe I take things too far, yet learning 2026 slang may help me get my mojo back. 

After reading the largely bizarre and disturbing article, I asked my children if they’ve ever heard of “Clavicle.”

They gave me dramatic eye rolling and a bit of howling for effect, and they let me know I incorrectly used the 20-year-old influencer’s name. I had to tread lightly — I was playing in their generation’s territory. 

Clavicular is a looksmaxxer, a male who focuses on boosting looks and image to achieve world dominance and who is also purportedly part of the subculture of incels, involuntarily celibate men who resent women for their lack of romantic partners and ability to connect with others.

Clavicular’s brand and online persona reek of racist undertones and misogyny, although, when asked about that directly, he becomes defensive and denies representing any group as a whole.

Even though Clavicular recently chanted a Nazi slogan in a Miami nightclub with the likes of Andrew Tate and Nick Fuentes, controversial men in their own right, I doubt Clavicular really cares how he’s being misrepresented. He only wants push other people’s buttons and provoke the norm. Personally, that lines up with the young adults I interact with and know. 

I didn’t want to give the article or Clavicular any more space to breathe, yet I still wanted to learn new terms he helped popularize so I could continue eavesdropping on youthful, spirited conversations.

To be mog, you outclass, outshine or appear significantly superior to someone else, predominantly regarding physical attractiveness, style or presence.

The internet slang term jestermaxxer is someone who has to use extreme humor and over-the-top antics to get a girl’s attention. They are forced to use humor to make up for not being a Chad, a person that is extremely good-looking, entitled and usually sexually active. 

To make things murkier and even more about one’s physical attributes, there’s aura-farming, having a face card, and shreking (i.e. doing something to look cool, a woman’s stunning face that grants her access to everything, and dating someone below your physical standards so they’d be less likely to cheat).

I became despondent thinking this generation of young adults believes their primary currency is their online persona. They have grown up glued to reels of someone else’s idealism and primarily see the world through physical beauty. Their slang gets more intense the more they live online and I wonder what tomorrow’s terminology will represent. 

Gen Z words that define this nonstop cyber habit are fueled by doomscrolling and bed rotting, the ability to sit for hours online comparing without connecting. I’ll admit some of my Sunday mornings are spent like that, too.

I don’t know if young adults have come up with words that fully explain their ironic ability to have a deep digital connection without first developing face-to-face, human connections with their peers.

That makes me have compassion for influencers like Clavicular. He only knows how to walk out of a “60 Minutes” interview when conversation gets difficult and hasn’t learned how to sit through the silence and awkwardness. That would take grit and resilience, two words foreign to influencers in the manosphere, an online place that began discussing issues men face but morphed into a vacuum where violence against women is normalized, all men are victims, and the belief that gender equality has come at the cost of a man’s rights.

Mastering self-confidence and authenticity comes from lots of trial and error — and you have to be present to practice it. I imagine some of Clavicular’s loneliness fuels his extreme behavior to be seen and loved. I hope he eventually gets the vibe check he needs.

Without going into even more detail than needed or shelaborating (that’s mansplaining in reverse), as I often like to do with these things, Gen Z has all the inherent traits to have a glow up and make something epic of themselves.

They’re not afraid to put their fears, flaws, worries and emotions out for all to see and judge. I give them props. Some just haven’t figured out how to share themselves in a more responsible and authentic way yet. I’m confident it will happen long before I can identify their latest slang, though.

Andrea Chacos lives in Colorado, dodging life’s curveballs with a bit of passion, humor and some flair. She can be reached at www.andreachacos.com

The post Gen Z is helping rewrite the dictionary appeared first on Park Record.

I cursed the package delivered to my doorstep and let the box sit on my kitchen counter for a couple of days, unmoved and unopened.

I knew it was another present from the fabulous friend who raises the gift-giving stakes one dazzling offering at a time. She curates every gift as if raised by deep-sea pearl divers and then exquisitely wraps everything with the care you’d expect from someone who sadistically bombs gift boxes with glitter and colored tissue paper.

To put another nail in the coffin of her thoughtfulness, her gifts usually come attached with a note written on a card that she probably picked up at some brick-and-mortar boutique owned by the cutest looking grandma ever.

She makes me feel loved … and sometimes lazy.

Over the years, I’ve given out a handful of pathetic birthday presents, cringeworthy moments that beg for a redo. Once I was running late meeting a friend for her birthday lunch and didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I desperately ran into the grocery store and then frantically scanned the linoleum aisles looking for anything that could pass as a birthday present and coming up, of course, empty-handed. An hour later she opened her gift over chicken-salad sandwiches.

She muttered and then forced what may have been an awkward-looking smile or maybe it was only a burp from the bubbly. She thanked me for the grocery store gift card and then followed it up with, You shouldn’t have or That’s so thoughtful. I can’t remember exactly what she said because my memory tries to erase it.

Whatever kindness she forced out of her mouth was more than I deserved. I celebrated her birthday with a cold, hard piece of plastic that one could redeem under fluorescent lighting for milk, eggs, tampons and toilet paper.

I lost part of my dignity that day. 

Another time, I went into my closet and plucked out a brand-new, luxury candle that was at one time gifted to me and passionately felt would make a better housewarming gift to a friend instead. The overpowering scent needed to reside somewhere else. I couldn’t remember who originally gave it to me, it was so long ago. I recycled and regifted it, proud of my resourcefulness.

When the recipient’s face contorted ever so slightly upon opening the gift, my fuzzy memory came into focus like a bullet train on cocaine. She graciously thanked me for the same scented candle in the same decorative gift bag tied with the same ornate bow she had once given me. Regifting requires strategy worthy of an Army general and, if I’m being honest, it’s a skill I’ve since improved upon.

Growing up, birthdays were never cause for balloons or banners in our home, and we didn’t learn how to celebrate in a grand manner like some families do for major holidays or events. Some occasions came with a thoughtful, well-written card and money. Others were family dinners at the nearby Chinese restaurant.

We weren’t ones to make a big fuss for traditionally honored days. I eventually figured that meaningful gifts were meant to be given when the moment was right and when the feelings of giving overcame me, not for times prescribed by the calendar on the wall. I hoped our family came across as low key and pragmatic, not as a clown car of scrooges, and I know this type of gift-giving behavior turned me into a gambling game of roulette. 

On display in my living room sits a refurbished, vintage typewriter. I received it one afternoon, an unexpected surprise that made me cry despite being poorly wrapped and weeks after the holiday season. It’s insanely impractical and takes up precious real estate in our tiny space. I’ve often thought it would look better tucked away in a closet.

At some time or another, I mentioned in conversation that I dreamed of one day sitting at a wooden desk in a misty cabin in the woods plucking away at a novel for months on end. Deep in thought, I’d have a cigarette burning idly from my mouth and a glass of wine nearby, even though I don’t smoke or drink. I’d be too wrapped up in my writing, even to eat.

It’s a romantic idea conjured up from a movie or one of Stephen King’s old horror stories. It doesn’t matter. The friend heard me, and the typewriter sees me. 

My son and his girlfriend tearfully said goodbye to one another earlier this year. They will spend several months and continents apart, a lifetime in delicate young-love years, often with no phone or other means of contact, an off-grid relationship for the foreseeable future. I imagine each will question their time apart, Are we still good? 

In an act of connection and commitment, once a week a small present with a handwritten card my son put together is scheduled to be sent to his girlfriend. He carefully prepared them before he went away, and my task is to mail them in the correct order. The gifts are tender and small, and the feelings are big.

I’m already grinning when I decide to open the package threatening to collect dust on my kitchen counter. My fabulous friend knows how to get that from me, making me feel special and loved before the package is even opened.

She is the real gift, and I hope she knows I’d feel the same way if she sent me a stone from the side of the road.

This time there is enough bubble wrap for a soft lunar landing and a sweatshirt from our hometown ice cream shoppe. There are other items in the box, yet I’m lost in memory. We spent years huddled together gossiping over double-dipped waffle cones.

The art of the gift is not about giving the glossiest present on the correct day, although who am I kidding, sometimes I love those kinds of gifts. The most meaningful gift ever to give and receive is about exposing a piece of our heart, and that can be unlocked any day of the week. Having a container of confetti and a calendar to remind you of those special occasions certainly helps, too. 

Andrea Chacos lives in Colorado, dodging life’s curveballs with a bit of passion, humor and some flair. She can be reached at www.andreachacos.com

The post The art of gift giving appeared first on Park Record.

A hard-core bibliophile can often be identified as the traditional hero, a glasses-wearing, tea-drinking avid reader who will defend soft light, quiet spaces, flipping pages and underlining phrases until her last dying breath.

One hand holds a physical book, while the other dog-ears corners of the pages that forever annotate a moment, a sentence, a feeling. A bookworm’s space is full of the written word and there’s purpose and placement for each and every book on her shelf.

This person can sometimes be viewed as an originalist, a dogmatic conservative that devours tomes via the page by comprehending, engaging with, and internalizing new information in this disciplined, conventional way. This type of reader is perceived to be under attack.

Getting your hands on a publication other than reading from words on paper has evolved in the past century.

In 1932 the American Foundation for the Blind introduced the first audio recordings on vinyl records. This organization made it so more people could access the written word. In the 1960s, the “talking book” went from vinyl to cassette tape, and by the 1990s, cars were littered with compact discs that pumped volumes of thrilling crime novels or self-help books to people that couldn’t get enough of them.

The beginning of the 21st century saw the rapid advancement of technology with tablets and ebooks, and in 2007 an ecommerce giant further revolutionized the audiobook industry when they popularized downloading books onto our phones.

Within a few short years, we could access millions of titles and listen to a story immediately from anywhere on the planet. A different type of reader flourished and soon infiltrated the land.

Audiobookphiles are hard-core audiobook lovers who can often be identified as the antagonist. They are liberal, multitasking individuals who have the ability to digest story after story while exercising, cleaning or commuting.

Audiobook lovers are easy to spot in the wild because they often wear spandex and painstakingly remove trendy headphones as if being interrupted during the climax of a story most likely on the list of “banned books” from the public library.

Audiobookphiles are sometimes viewed as pragmatists, devouring books by comprehending, engaging with, and internalizing new information in this equally disciplined, but unconventional way.

Audiobookphiles make some of us feel uncomfortable because they erode our historical understanding that books were originally intended to be read on a page.

Peeper-reading traditionalists are being harassed by those now enjoying literature in a rainbow of woke ways. This attack on tradition has become increasingly more radicalized as modern-day audiobooks continue to proliferate.

In my recent book club meeting, I witnessed a mom choke back angry tears protecting her choice to listen to the book by saying, “You make me feel like I’m a cheating villain,” to unsympathetic traditionalists who believed books should only be read with sockets and eyeballs that were bestowed at birth.

I could tell they didn’t think listening to a book counted as much as reading one because they walked out on her mid-sentence while she was trying to explain the difference between learning styles and the science of how the brain works. I’d like to think their temporal lobes didn’t register they were actively engaged in a live conversation.

Listening to books is an auditory learning style preferred for some readers because their brain is able to absorb, remember and comprehend information better when information is delivered this way. Auditory learners enjoy listening to a story come to life and often thrive in environments when they have to process conversational language.

A talented narrator has that special talent, and if you haven’t experienced an audiobook, I highly recommend downloading Lawrence Fishburne reading “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” or listen to “Dungeon Crawler Carl” to become bizarrely obsessed with the talking cat Princess Donut. 

On the other hand, people who have strength in a visual learning style connect ideas and remember details more readily using this strategy. Reading stories on the page relies on the brain’s ability to create and retain mental imagery and will benefit visual learners that enjoy this type of comprehension best.

Many of us still visualize Nurse Ratched’s wicker bag from Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and can imagine the real Anne Frank in “The Diary of a Young Girl” by the power of the author’s written words. Talented authors have that special talent, too.

Science can now measure that reading and listening to a book each offer distinct benefits to the brain and activate different cognitive pathways for comprehension, retention, and the development of language fluency. There is no superior learning style.

All language involves a complex network of interconnected regions and how you “read” depends entirely on the specific learning goal you’re aiming to acquire. Bibliophiles and audiobookphiles are simply different in how they consume their literature.

It’s time to cross the aisle and admit that they both have the same goal in the end. All bona fide book lovers only want to blab about their passion for the last book they devoured in a day and then share it with someone new. 

Genuine, diehard book lovers couldn’t care less how anyone chooses to access a book as long as they can converse about it later. All other arguments are designed to distract us from the real villain in the story, and that is the force that controls what we write, what we listen to, and what we will ultimately have access to on our shelves for years to come.

We’re fortunate to still have choice and agency with our books, but aren’t we shattering traditional values when we want to silence access to some but not others? 

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, Colorado, dodging life’s curveballs with a bit of passion, humor and some flair. She can be reached at www.andreachacos.com

The post Can listening count as reading? appeared first on Park Record.

The Fourth of July is the only holiday I tolerate being hot and sweaty from sunrise to sunset because there’s the promise of fireworks at its conclusion.

The combination of gunpowder and burning chemicals takes me back to the shore of the Long Island Sound, where my brother and I “oohed” and “aahed” at the firework display put on from the boats strategically placed out on the water. My grandmother would line the kids up by the edge of the beach while we tried to pinpoint exactly where the razzle dazzle and fuse of fire would commence.

My grandmother put a hot dog in one hand and placed a popsicle in the other to keep us occupied while she opened the delicate box of sparklers she bought weeks earlier. Then my grandfather would reach into his pants pocket and take out his lighter to ceremoniously anoint each of us with a lit sparkler of our own.

We were instructed to hold tightly with both hands and not let go. For one minute I was hypnotized as smelly smoke creeped up the tendrils of my nose and lightning-bug sparks danced in front of my eyes. 

We would crawl with excitement for the main show to begin while counting down 10, 9, 8 … every time we saw movement out on the water. Once the first firework exploded and turned night into day, we tried to anticipate what would illuminate the sky next. Some blasted up like rockets and erupted into a bunch of little worms while others looked like stars that dripped down all over the sky.

We were mesmerized. We even cheered at the long pauses and the occasional squealing dud. Long before the show was over, I yearned for more loud explosives as I held on tightly to my grandmother’s hand.

I had fallen in love with the salty air and sticky popsicle sticks, booming sounds, and the fire-starters that bravely came out to give us their yearly, over-the-top display of indulgence.

When I moved to the mountains some many years ago, I didn’t realize that it was the big cities near large bodies of water that could afford to put on a 20-minute magic show. This is a luxury we don’t possess in western Colorado, which forced me to create my own Independence Day celebration instead.

Although this day officially signifies when we ratified the Declaration of Independence separating us from British rule, I subscribe to the more popular and ubiquitous cultural symbolism of the federal holiday. I choose to honor barbeque, creamsicles, and getting my hands on some good ol’ fashioned fireworks.

For years as July came into view, I scanned the side of the road for a libertarian-style fireworks stand or looked for someone selling black-market Roman candles from the trunk of their car. I’d gather friends with a secret pyrotechnic past, combine the fireworks we had been stockpiling, and find a volunteer to get more by taking a long road trip across state lines because Colorado has a ban on the good stuff like bottle rockets, cherry bombs, mortars, and M-80’s.

On July 4, we would barbeque until dark and then unabashedly set the neighborhood ablaze. We hoped our children were absorbing the reverence of the summer holiday as we grilled food and bowed toward the loud explosions. I made sure to pass down some of my grandparents’ sacred traditions by making sure my children always had a sparkler in hand, too.

Then everything about the climate changed. We’ve been forced to acknowledge the part we play in adding to greenhouse gasses, wildfires and poor air quality.

Although I’d like to deny science because the nostalgic smell of fireworks fondly brings me back to my childhood, I know they release toxic and harmful gases like carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxides and sulfur dioxide.

Once the fireworks explode, these pollutants release and then get trapped in the atmosphere, contributing to global warming while doing additional damage to human lungs.

To make matters worse, arid climates like Colorado and Utah provide perfect conditions for accidental fires to spread rapidly and out of control, releasing even larger amounts of CO2 and other pollutants into the atmosphere.

I can no longer set my neighborhood on fire in the name of fun or without a tinge of guilt for the harm they do to humans and our habitat. 

The Fourth of July will always have a piece of my heart for its hedonistic indulgences and guilt-free hot dogs. I know my fiery ways are not acceptable anymore, but I want to ensure my children’s grandchildren have fond memories on the Fourth of July, too.

I guess I’ll have to watch a parade, take in a laser-drone show, and pretend to burn the house down by getting my hands on some legal pop-its, ground spinners, and glow worms instead.

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, Colorado, dodging life’s curveballs with a bit of passion, humor and some flair. She can be reached at www.andreachacos.com

The post What’s so special about a holiday in July? appeared first on Park Record.

I always come up blank when I question the purpose of life, and I’ve watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” plenty of times to understand that it’s supposed to be the culmination of the little things we do, what we say, and how we act that give us meaning.

When I was young, I was convinced I was put on this Earth to play and party, and I thoroughly nailed it. As I got older, I figured out the purpose was probably more complex than that, and I searched for the meaning of life like an earnest cast member of Monty Python.

Giving my life deep meaning and connection has become my holy grail, and I hope to find out what life is really all about before I forget how to tie my own shoes.

I had no idea what I was looking for in my teens and early 20s. I was a sensitive college graduate with an expensive degree and nowhere to go. I spouted authority on everything and deep knowledge about nothing, often quoting the philosopher Nietzsche as I danced around life looking insane to those that couldn’t hear my music.

Without empathy to ground me, I wandered happily for a few years navigating my place in the world through skiing, traveling and exercising. I was self-centered and quite good at it. I lived easily with an income that paid for my hedonistic lifestyle. The physical world kept my ego busy, giving me much needed value and validation.

I believed I found life’s meaning and didn’t know that as I got older my ability to think abstractly and critically would find ways to disrupt my “doing” sense of self.

To the relief of the people around me, the blinders I wore in my early 20s faded. I began coaching a youth soccer team in town and learned what “being a volunteer” meant financially. I voted in a local election for the first time even though I was still skeptical that my vote didn’t matter.

As I became aware of my surroundings, my overactive ego didn’t want to compete as fiercely anymore. I cared for things other than myself and the feelings for those I loved fell into step.

I even dipped my toe back into religion, which allowed my grandmother to go to her grave believing she helped raise a devoted, Jewish granddaughter. I was winning at the bright side of life and thought I could see the big picture. 

For a long time, I found my calling as a public school teacher. The long hours, stressful special education meetings, and the constant pushing for increased equity and inclusion gave me a sense of fulfillment I had never experienced before. I was in a constant state of exhaustion but enjoyed being in the classroom forging strong relationships with the children and the community.

I loved being part of something larger than myself and I knew my work mattered. I thought I could feel the big picture. Then I went and had children of my own.

My world shrunk overnight when I left the classroom. My priorities shifted as I stayed at home for a few years to raise three little ones. I didn’t see past the four walls of my home for a very long time. Depression, wrinkles and saggy body parts took over and I struggled to see the light.

I was going through the motions modeling the behavior of parents who were crushing it, and then devoted myself to fully embrace how to raise my children in a similar way. I gained a profound appreciation for the hard work it takes to put caring, well-rounded humans into the world and couldn’t have done it without the village that shepherded me along the way. I thought I caught a glimpse of life’s meaning.

For many years, I snuffed the needs of my professional aspirations while raising children that had growing needs of their own. I wanted desperately to get back out into the world and find purpose outside my own family but couldn’t find a way to manage it all without guilt and feelings of inadequacy. I was falling into the abyss of my own unrealistic making.

Eventually, I found a modest career that gave me a lifeline to the outside world. Nurturing coworkers and a reassuring boss told me that I could balance a career with school plays, parent-teacher conferences, doctor appointments, and the many lacrosse tournaments I wanted to attend.

Their knowledge of how to prioritize work and home had a profound effect on my identity and allowed me to feel fulfillment beyond motherhood. Life was becoming clearer still, and many mentors had answers to questions I didn’t know existed. I was beginning to think about the big picture.

Then one evening I lay awake all sweaty while the meaning of my time here on Earth cast a shadow over me once again. I bolted upright because I was in no mood for another existential crisis.

However, with stability in my life and experience by my side, I stumbled upon some answers. Life is about the connections we make and the relationships we nurture. Looking back, I can thread together people in my life who have made an impact, and helped me become the person I am today. This makes me feel closer to whole than I’ve ever felt before. 

I eventually turned off my bedroom light and fluffed my pillow just right. I put the quest to find my spiritual holy grail to bed and remembered a quote from Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism. “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

Maybe I’m beginning to understand what life is all about while I can still lean over and tie my own shoes.

Andrea Chacos writes from Carbondale, Colorado.

The post Searching for my spiritual holy grail appeared first on Park Record.

I think death is knocking on my bedroom door ready to put me out of my snotty misery, but it’s only my father with a cup of tea and a thermometer to take my temperature.

I have a flair for the dramatic and cough loudly. I want to call out sick from my part-time weekend job, but I am in no condition for responsibility. I’m too impossibly weak to lift the telephone receiver to call my boss and tell him I won’t be able to come into work on this Saturday. I find mighty tears that spring from a distant oasis and beg my dad to make the call for me.

I sheepishly tuck my head under the covers because I am a teenager with enough years under my belt to be slightly ashamed with my behavior. I lay with my confusing feelings of relief and embarrassment and vow to be an adult another day. 

Thirty years later, when my own teenage child comes creeping down the hall one early Saturday morning sounding like he’s in the clutches of the common cold, I already know he will not be going into his part-time weekend job this Saturday. I pause before meeting him outside my bedroom door and remember all those years ago when my dad did my dirty work and called out sick for me. 

After all this time, I still didn’t understand why my father missed the opportunity to teach me how to appropriately talk to my boss and help me advocate for my needs. His usual no-nonsense manner was too easily swayed by my masterful performance or maybe I simply caught him in a moment of parental weakness. Either way, my mind likes to replay the day often. I take a deep breath and then open the bedroom door to meet my sick son in the hallway.

He has a band of sweat on his brow. He’s all weary and weak and looks unusually jagged. Are those tears in the corners of his eyes? I can’t be sure, but I think I understand what my father must have felt all those years ago. My primal instinct as his parent is to take away immediate aches and pains, including the agonizing emotional ones that come with being a teenager with responsibilities he will need to navigate in the adult world. 

Instead, I vow not to repeat my father’s well-intentioned, teddy-bear moment because I still misattribute calling out sick with feelings that make me want to hide my head under the covers in disgrace. Calling out sick is not a sign of weakness, a lack of dependability, or wholly irresponsible but there’s a part of me that believes it is anyway.

The guilt hangs on me like a bag with a broken shoulder strap and every now and again, when I must call out sick myself, those skewed feelings fall out all over the place. I don’t want my son to have to carry around an awkward bag into adulthood like I have done. 

As my son and I sit together in the dark on the top of our staircase this early Saturday morning, I try to keep my own feelings in check. He coughs and clucks and struggles with the uncomfortable lesson ahead. I can see he’s nervous. He waits and debates until there is no time left. 

I help him craft a simple, authentic message to his boss. I cringe at the way he chooses to communicate through text messaging, and for the umpteenth time, my son reminds me this is the preferred way the labor force communicates nowadays. We get off topic until I spectacularly steer us back to the task at hand. I coach him on how to step into his responsibility by speaking the truth. 

I could have simply called his boss myself and saved us both my over-the-top theatrics and even more time. But I didn’t. I couldn’t let myself take the easy way out again. As the alternative, I shared my story of sickness from long ago and even admitted I was almost twenty years old at the time! The teenager still living inside of me finally needed to pull back the covers and teach us both how to perform a task no one on this planet enjoys doing, no matter the age of the individual calling out sick from work.

Andrea Chacos lives in Colorado, dodging life’s curveballs with a bit of passion, humor and some flair. She can be reached at www.andreachacos.com

The post Guest Editorial: A teenager’s guide to calling in sick from work appeared first on Park Record.