lights ever since I was a kid, so I figured a little hyperbole was justified. At first I thought that maybe I was just working too hard. It was a crazy time to be starting out as a forensic accountant—between the crash and Dodd-Frank, there was more on my plate those first few years than you could feed a fat kid. But even then I wasn’t working that hard. Nothing like Dad. And he didn’t have any of the benefits that come from working at a Big Four firm: yoga classes in the corporate gym, a gourmet chef on every other floor, four weeks of vacation (six counting holidays). So I knew it had to be something other than work. By then I was already seeing Dr. D for another problem, so I asked him if he could also help with my enchantment issues. He suggested that I use my vacations for “adventures” instead of more conventional kinds of tourism—apparently happy people favor experiences over consumption. I said fine. For the next three years, I took my traveling to the next level. Running with the bulls. Swimming with the sharks. Playing Monopoly with the Peruvians. A few other stunts that I can barely remember now— just that statements were made, envelopes pushed. Once it became clear that all my badassery wasn’t really changing anything, Dr. D suggested that I start logging each day of my vacations in writing—apparently happy people are also more likely to record their experiences. I said fine. I bought a bunch of black notebooks and recorded my way across Syria (fortunately before things got serious). Then repeated that on trips to Morocco, Thailand, Turkey, etc. I kept that up for another three years. All the way up to last month, when I made the mistake of actually reading all of those notebooks.