We ate tapas at a place on Restaurant Row - spicy potatoes and octopus and fried sardines that were bigger than any sardine I'd ever seen - and then paella and we drank a half pitcher of sangria which was more like a whole pitcher.  We had wine at the bar in midtown surrounded by hipsters in skinny jeans and fedoras with retro hair cuts, and then went home in a cab because it was late.

During the morning ride to work the subway is warm and the train rocks and I feel nauseous.  There is already someone at work when I arrive.  She needs to get into the church.  I sit in front of my computer with a foggy head and try to do the things that I am supposed to do today.  A little coffee, another hour, and it lifts: my stomach calms, my head stops aching, I can think clearly.  I feel relief like that ecstatic relief after a bad dream.  I walk outside for a moment in the sun because it is a gorgeous day in New York.

Maybe we make ourselves sick so that we can get better.  Maybe we are sad so that we can recognize happiness when we feel it.