It was a beautiful October Sunday in San Diego. I should have been sitting outside somewhere, sipping a margarita and exposing my pasty, pale, East-Coast skin to the abundant sunshine, but here I was, lying on a backboard in a San Diego ER. I’d been in the city for less than 24 hours. Dammit!! WTH, San Diego?!

You see, San Diego and I had a history. More specifically, the San Diego convention center and I had a history. It wasn’t good.

It all started with a boss. A bad boss. A bully boss. Let’s call her…Millicent.

About 10 years ago, I took a job as a reporter on the staff of a health association magazine. It was not a pleasant experience. Millicent–managing editor and my new boss–and I were hired at the same time. And Millicent was on a mission. She was determined to put her personal stamp on the magazine, which evidently required stamping my ass. I was just WRONG. All the time.

For instance, “You know, when you came on board, “Arthur” (our big boss) and I thought you were going to be really good—maybe even give T (a great writer and longtime magazine staffer—still a friend—who was “unstampable”) a run for her money—but you’re just not. You know, sometimes I just really question your ability. There’s something missing.”

Wow, thanks. That was so helpful.

That’s what it was like. Every. Single. Day. I don’t respond well to bullying. Who does?  So I became kind of paralyzed. I was suddenly unsure of every story.  Was my reporting thorough enough? Was it well written? Who knows? My writing became–how shall I say this–constipated.

Fast forward eight months. The annual association meeting was in San Diego. Millicent was still wretched, but hey, I was going to San Diego!! I’d always wanted to go, and even though I was going during the “June gloom,” when the city is often cloudy and misty, it was going to be great.

Not so much.

20,000 attendees and 1000s of sessions, and I need to pick the best sessions. I actually didn’t do too bad. But then there was the editorial board meeting. This was an annual meeting with all the subject-matter experts who officially oversaw magazine content.

Arthur started the meeting with an introduction of the magazine’s two new staffers. It went something like this: This is our new editor Millicent, who has just been amazing and is doing a wonderful, wonderful job…And this is Laurie.

Um, thanks?

Then a board member suddenly blurted out his disdain for a recent research short–editorially approved– I’d written for the magazine. It was not news (um, new study, dude!) Everybody already knew all about it! How could I be so stupid (OK, that part was subtext, but barely).

My editors: silence.

Me: swinging in the wind

Deep breath. Deeeep breath…..

Silently boiling.

My interior monologue: Don’t. Walk. Out. Do not get out of this chair and book the next flight. If you leave now, they’ll make you pay for the flight and probably everything else. They’ll fire you.

So I stayed. They fired me anyway. Right after I got back and wrote up those sessions.

It was actually kind of a relief. My experience at the conference wasn’t the worst thing ever—it was just enough. And it wasn’t San Diego’s fault, but I can’t help scowling when I think about that time.

So, October 2007. Two jobs later and another convention in San Diego. Great! It would be sunny and warm and all I had to do was go to some interesting sessions and “share with the class” when I got back.

Lunchtime, Sunday. Right before the opening address. I was walking downstairs with some fellow attendees I’d been chatting with. And then halfway down, for reasons that still aren’t clear—my ankles that always turn over or my shoes or the stairs themselves or?—I fell. Spectacularly.

Now, I have a tendency to fall, and I usually fall “well.” I’ve somersaulted out of falls, strategically moved my purse to cushion my head with just seconds to go, launched my falling body away from concrete to grass, but this just happened too quickly. Yet somehow quite slowly. Ohhh…nooo…really f-d..up…this…time…going…to…break…neck…and…die.

I didn’t. But I did land on my ass five steps down, turned around and twisted over so that the right side of my face was resting on the LEFT handrail. How I got into that position? It’s a mystery.

So I was kind of discombobulated. Shaken, if you will. Coherent, but freaked out. And the first aid guy thought I should probably go to the hospital.

So, that’s how I ended up in the ER. Per protocol first aid guy procured an ambulance. The EMTs guilted (and scared) me into getting on a backboard (almost more painful than my injuries) and there I was, desperately waiting for someone to get me out of that fricking neck brace.

Diagnosis: whiplash. Prescription: ibuprofen, muscle relaxants and Vicodin.

It wasn’t all bad. I got to attend sessions till I punked out–usually midday. At lunch outside and spent my afternoons recuperating, propped up in bed at the Hard Rock Hotel (long story).

But I did have to do months of physical therapy and I still have a tendency to injure those muscles. Still, it’s a great story—in a disastergirl kind of way.

So, you can see why I might think that San Diego + me = bad things. And it’s a real problem. I’ve wanted to go to ComicCon for years, but you do know where it is, right?  And dammit, I have people (Nathan Fillion, the cast of The Walking Dead, and again, Nathan Fillion) to stalk and television-cast panels to attend, dammit.

And yet.

Frankly I’m a bit scared—what would happen? It could be something absolutely horrifying or embarrassing that would inevitably happen in the vicinity of Nathan, who is my maddest of crushes or Joss Whedon, who is well, you know, Joss Whedon. (Does Joss Whedon even go to ComicCon? I don’t know, CAUSE SAN DIEGO FREAKING SCARES ME).

But I want to dress up like the Evil Queen/Regina from “Once Upon a Time” (killer jackets and kick-ass boots) and absolutely molest a certain “devilishly handsome” cast member.

So what the hell. Third time’s the charm?

I’m coming for you, Captain Hook. You too, Nathan.