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As I stood on the balcony of our hotel suite, the warm ocean breeze tousling my increasingly salt-and-pepper chest hair, I couldn’t help but be suspicious of the long overdue peace that washed over me. I peered down at the turquoise waves breaking gently on the shore, studying them as if they couldn’t be real. The last six months had taken every bit of time, energy, and give-a-damn that I had in the tank.
The soothing rhythm of sea against sand accomplished something that the overnight flight and the water taxi to the resort hadn’t. I finally felt transported a million miles away from the cacophony of my double life. Here, on this secluded tropical island, I wasn’t Mike Dawson, the middle-aged executive with a stack of unread emails and looming KPI deadlines. Nor was I DadMan, the caped superhero the press couldn’t get enough of and whose secret identity every newspaper in town wanted to expose.
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