The enduring tension between work and life came to a head for me this morning when, almost literally on the verge of heading to the airport with my girlfriend for a long weekend away, I got an email that scrapped all of my plans. A colleague at Behavior had fallen ill, and I had little choice but to put away my suitcase and head into the office to cover the work that she wouldn’t be able to do under the influence of a 103 degree fever. I don’t mind shouldering the burden — this particular project is really my responsibility, and I’d be a poor manager to complain about having to do the work — but I felt miserable for bailing out of the weekend trip to see my girlfriend’s family. She ended up getting on the plane alone, and my stomach felt queasy; it was proof that when it comes down to it, work trumps everything, but is that any way to live a life? My partners and I started this business with the idea that we’d have more freedom — economically, creatively and personally. That’s not the case, at least not yet, and it’s killing me.
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