I knew when I started applying for summer internships that I wouldn’t exactly be living the glamorous life of a journalist. I was just some intern with relatively no journalism experience outside of school, so I was happy enough just to get a job for the summer. I reflected on this while I cleaned out the fridge in the office the other day.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I actually was thinking of how easy I had it compared to some other people this summer. Here I was, getting paid and going to fancy parties for “work” and everything. So armed with latex gloves and a bottle of Dial soap, looking at the year-old curdled milk in the fridge, I considered the people who are not as fortunate as I am.

First there’s the fallback option for almost all college kids: camp counselor. Sure, you get a good amount of money and some great stories to tell about your campers. But there are always those moments that scare you. For those of you who did not grow up on the North Shore (and I’m talking true North Shore; Evanston is a little too ghetto for us suburbanites), well, first be a little thankful. Then try to imagine the world where children are raised on Starbucks and Ritalin. It’s here in life, when parents meet their children at camp in the middle of the day for a sushi lunch, where you get a little scared.

I don’t envy the cherub RAs either. Sure, it’s cool that you get paid a lot for just sitting around campus, but soon-to-be high school seniors? Spending five weeks with a bunch of kids with superiority complexes? Spending one night a week in the Daily office is bad enough. I’m sure it’s nostalgic to relive the days of being 17, but when I spend that much time with people, I need to know that they were there with me when Right Said Fred was too sexy and lost boys cheered for Rufio. What do they have to claim for their childhood? “The Santa Clause.” So, thankfully, I don’t have to deal with that.

And most importantly, at least I am not an L.A. girl named L.C., who overdosed on the respect and glamour that Laguna Beach brought to her and so continued her stunning television career on “The Hills” (I couldn’t let my first column go by without a tribute to Dan Macsai and his favorite show). As an assignment at her internship at Teen Vogue, she had to fly to New York recently to drop off a dress for a fashion show. And she didn’t even get to hang out and see the show. (It’s OK, though, because her roommate Heidi, who dropped out of fashion school after a day because it was too hard, is totally on top of the job world; she told The New York Times she’s hoping her “Hills” status will land her a film career).

So compared with some of my friends this summer (I’m ignoring the ones who are living in Australia or working for Reuters) I’m not doing that bad.

Now back to the curdled milk.

Reach Emmet Sullivan at [email protected].