The Road Warriors are the rock stars of business travel. Those left behind are the roadies.

Of course, I know that everything isn't all peaches and preservative-free fresh cream for the Road Warrior. Sometimes, when you're in Alaska, rain erases the chances of seeing the northern lights. (Why? Why when I'm here?!) In Italy, the wild-boar sauce overwhelms the capellini d'Angelo. (What was the chef thinking???) Sometimes a cab is just too hard to find, so a limo has to be ordered, which means having to concoct a good-enough excuse for the bean counters back home. (Does everything have to be a hassle?)

No, no, no. I jest.

Being a Road Warrior isn't all it's cracked up to be. Road Warriors sit in cookie-cutter hotel rooms, clicking the remote. They stay up, working half the night on reports that seem to reproduce little baby reports. They dine alone, reading the paper and eating bad hotel food.

They end up in places like Columbus. Which is a fine town, don't get me wrong. But it isn't, you know, Venice.

Road Warriors become Road Weariers. They miss their homes. They pine for their families. They long to hear their spouse's voice.

And then the phone rings. It is their spouse. They brighten.

"Hiiiiii," says the Road Warrior, with a singsong chipperness. "How are things?"

"Where were you last night?"

"What?"

"I called your room; you weren't there. I called your cell; you didn't answer. What were you doing?"

"Um … dancing?"

"Dancing?!"

"They had a get-together, one of these get-to-know-you things. And everybody was dancing, so, you know, I mean … "

"You danced?"

"I sorta had to."

"Had to. With whom? Whom did you dance with?"