When I woke up this morning/afternoon, the first thing Bonnie said was, “Would you like to go on an adventure?”

“I sure would,” I said. “Does it involve leaving this couch?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It involves going to a wig shop.”

“Then yes, I definitely want to go on an adventure.”

So that’s what we did–we went to a wig shop–but only after we had coffee and tacos. I mean, no one wants to shop for “spare hair” on an un-caffeinated, empty stomach. That’s just asking for trouble. Anyway, I’ve never been wig shopping before, so it was like an education. There were wigs of every size, shape, and color, and Bonnie taught me about about curls, tight knits, and lace fronts. “It’s an entire world,” she said. “An entire world.”

This afternoon we went back to Annie’s Plates studio to hang the rest of the curtains and put together a piece of furniture for the reception area. Hanging the curtains was “just okay,” but I can’t tell you how much fun I had reading the instructions and putting together the furniture. (I know–it’s crazy–a man who reads directions. What can I say? Miracles never cease.) I guess it reminded me of working with Legos. You start off with a bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about, and then all of a sudden–something wonderful appears.

Voila!

This morning I got a message from my friend Micah. Micah and I graduated high school together–our class had a grand total of twelve–but I don’t think we’ve seen each other since, except on Facebook. Anyway, he said he noticed that I was visiting Austin and that he was too–and would I like to get together?

“I sure would,” I said.

Another adventure.

So this evening Bonnie and I met Micah and his wife, Lindsey, in downtown Austin at a restaurant called Searsucker (it’s like the pants, but spelled differently and tastes better). Y’all, I don’t mean to sound like a total redneck, but this place was fancy. I mean, the men’s bathroom was fancy (I didn’t go in the women’s). They actually had throw-away hand towels with their name printed on–every–single–one. I was totally impressed. First the bar I went to the other night has a box of condoms in the bathroom and now this. It really is the little details that make you feel important.

So get this shit. No fewer than six different waiters–each one of whom I’m pretty sure had a thirty-inch waist–came to the table to ask if we were done with our cheese board EVEN THOUGH there were still three pieces of cheese and two pieces of bread left on it. Like, You’re not planning on EATING that are you?

Well, yeah, we were. I mean, is that the wrong answer? Are you not supposed to eat the food here?

Anyway, after a delightful evening of appetizers, drinks, and conversation with Micah and Lindsey, Bonnie and I ran a quick errand, and then she dropped me off at a swing dance at a restaurant that had a dance floor made out of old bowling lanes. How creative is that? Well, the dance was about an hour’s walk from where we are staying, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to get back. (Bonnie had stuff going on, and Austin told Uber to go screw themselves.) But–honestly–I’d had enough to drink that I wasn’t worried about it. “I’ll figure it out,” I said.

So just about the time that the dance was winding down, Bonnie walked through the front door and said, “I went back to the place to change before going dancing myself, but I remembered I gave you the key.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “I guess that would come in handy.”

So bummer for Bonnie that she got locked out of the house, but yippee that I didn’t have to try to navigate my way home with the brainpower you get when you have a disappearing cheese board and three scotches for supper. (I can’t imagine it would have been pretty.) Well, as it turns out, Bonnie and I were both craving breakfast foods, so we stopped at an all-night diner, where I ate chicken and waffles and drank two more beers (I had one at the dance)–because all of that seemed like a good idea at the time.

When we finally made it back to where we’re staying, Bonnie took off for her late-night Kizomba dance, and I walked to buy a pack of cigarettes–again because it seemed like a good idea at the time. (Like you’ve never done anything you’ve regretted later.) Anyway, on the way back from the gas station, a guy sitting on the curb asked if I had a light. Well, whenever that happens and I don’t have a lighter, I always feel so useless, like maybe how Clark Kent would feel if little Timmy were stuck in a well on a day when his Superman outfit just happened to be at the cleaners. But tonight I was like, “You bet I do. I JUST bought it.”

Here I am to save the day!

Well, the guy says he has his own smokes–American Spirits–but they’re in his backpack. So he starts digging around in there, digging around, but not finding anything. And I’m just standing there, like a slightly impatient, kind of tipsy superhero with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, if you can imagine that sort of thing. So I’m waiting, and the guy’s still rifling through is backpack and says, “DON’T WORRY, I’m not going to pull a gun out of here.”

Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but I immediately thought, What if he has a gun in there? What if I die over a pack of Camels and the twenty-four dollars in my pocket? That would seriously suck.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. As it turns out, the guy was drunk (too), and he invited me to sit down. Why not? I thought, Yet another adventure. So he started talking about this guitar, this cheap piece of shit he bought on Amazon. “I know it’s nothing special,” he said. “But this case, it’s got all these bumper stickers on it. This case has been all over with me.” And then he told me about some of the places he’d been–Louisiana–Florida–I can’t remember where all. But Florida is where he got the bumper sticker about equality. “I like girls,” he said, “but if you’re not hurting anyone–and it doesn’t involve animals or children–I don’t see why it matters who you sleep with.”

“Why don’t you take some of my cigarettes,” I said. “Here, take a bunch. I really don’t need them.”

So he took a couple but kept searching his backpack for his American Spirits. I said, “You’ll find them later. It’s like when you try to remember a name, but can’t, and then you eventually remember it when it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, a name always matters,” he said. (This next part is where his drunk wisdom started to miss the mark.) “Not everyone is born with a silver spoon–or a golden spoon–or a platinum spoon–in their mouth. But a name–that’s something.”

“What’s your name? I said.

“Woody. My name’s Woody.”

Bonnie and I have talked a lot this week about meaning, the way we as humans interpret the events in our lives, whether or not everything is random. I’m open to the idea that it is, but I personally like the thought that reconnecting with an old friend in one of my favorite cities or sitting down with a stranger for a cigarette aren’t accidents. I can’t say what it all means or if it does even, but I can say what it means to me. I really have come to see life as an adventure to say yes to, and that includes wig shops and small reunions and talking to people I wouldn’t normally talk to. From the outside, maybe it looks like a bunch of pieces of wood and some building materials, maybe it looks like a bunch of bumper stickers slapped on an old guitar case. A bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about. But put it all together, and Voila! All of a sudden, something wonderful appears–a piece of furniture, a life, an entire world.