“I’ll sleep when I die,” a type-A friend of ours joked. They laughed. I pondered.
The joke squirreled its way into my heart. I was 21 and already had tasted the first fruits of my labor. It was sweet. My hard work had earned me esteem from my college professors. Their glowing comments were my drug. Late nights in the library were my payment.
“Who wants to play?” was the refrain of my school-teacher dad when I was a kid. My sister and I leaped when my dad arrived home from work and joined us for a football game with our neighborhood friends.