The hard-working, hard-partying week-and-a-half kicked off when I left straight from work for Amsterdam, arrived in Amsterdam, walked around for a few hours, went to a wedding and then on to its reception, which lasted until 3 a.m., at which point I'd been up more than 36 hours, not including the three or four slept on my flight. Nine hours of sleep and it was another day, but the morning after that I flew back from Amsterdam to New York, and the next day at work I was in the office until midnight, and the night after that I was out drinking with the interns until one a.m. Two nights later it was Friday, and I pulled a near-all nighter for work, putting in a solid 20-hour day and not stopping until 4:30 in the morning because I was so pleased to use a machete to cut through red tape. Saturday (the day) was for more work, Saturday (the night) was for cake-hoisting and drinking late, and Sunday ended when I crawled into bed on Monday morning as the sun came up, though at that point I couldn't distinguish the birds from the ringing in my ears. I wasn't on peyote shouting "I get it!" but I might as well have been.
Yesterday I started to feel sick in the afternoon, and now today I'm pretty sick, like a mild case of Ebola came out of nowhere just as temperatures started cresting in the 80s, even though I (almost) never get sick, not even a hangover or headache. Subordinates try to sway me to take their medicine. I cancel a lunch meeting. Maybe I have the tuberculosis. Maybe I have eye amoebas.
"When you smoke a pack of cigarettes and then run six miles, doesn't that defeat the point?" Flop recently asked.
"No," I said, "it just means that nothing can stop me."
There's a lesson in this.