Fourteen months of seventy-hour weeks. I didn't notice what it was doing to me until I caught the bathroom mirror one Tuesday night.
There was gray at my temples that hadn't been there in January. My face had gone kind of hollow, like something scooped out from behind the cheekbones.
I'd been so busy proving I deserved the promotion that I'd forgotten to eat dinner at a table since spring.
On the counter sat my old fold-out map of the Blue Ridge, one route highlighted in yellow from a road trip I kept promising myself I'd take. The creases were soft from refolding. That was three years ago.
My niece called that night, near tears. She'd failed her driving test for the second time. She kept stalling at the same intersection in town.
I told her what I wish somebody had told me. That the same route can take you somewhere different every time you drive it. That you're allowed to take your hands off the wheel and breathe.
She was quiet for a while. Then she laughed. I realized I hadn't heard my own laugh in months either.
I called my boss the next morning and took the days I'd earned. The map is still on the passenger seat. I think I'm finally going to follow it.