For the last several days I’ve been in Houston, Texas, at Lindyfest, a large Lindy Hop (dance) convention. Yesterday was the final day of the event, and I stayed up until almost four this morning dancing with and talking to both old friends and new. When I finally called it a night and got back to my room, I took a hot shower and absolutely passed out. Since my roommate took off yesterday afternoon, I had the bed to myself and didn’t have to worry about whether or not I would snore or anything.

And for the record, my roommate said I snored one night, but not the others. (Phew.) “That’s much better than I figured,” I told him.

This morning I woke up a little after nine in order to eat breakfast before the buffet downstairs closed. My plan was to go back to my room after eating and take a nap before checking out at noon, but I realized at breakfast that if I left at noon I’d get stuck in Dallas traffic on the way home. So I went with Plan B, which was to drink an entire pot of coffee; suck it up, buttercup; and hit the road.

Y’all, I hate to brag, but you’re basically looking at a road magician. Somehow–I can’t reveal my secrets–I managed to transform an eight-hour drive home into a ten-hour one. (Abracadabra!) Okay, okay, you twisted my arm. I stopped three times to fill up with gas and use the restroom. Also, I COMPLETELY missed my turn to get onto Interstate 40 in Checotah, Oklahoma, the birthplace of country-music superstar Carrie Underwood. Anyway, I seriously don’t know how it happened. I must have been singing along with Justin Beiber’s version “Despacito.” The next thing I knew, I was in Muskogee, Oklahoma, thinking, Wait a damn minute, this doesn’t look right.

Bom, bom. (That’s a lyric from “Despacito,” Mom.)

As it turns out, I was twenty-two miles north of my missed turn. Well, what can you do except turn around? Like, I started to fret about the whole thing and blame myself for not paying better attention, but I honestly didn’t have the energy for it. So instead I whipped Tom Collins (my car) around and headed back south. Effectively, the “detour” added an hour to my trip. That being said, it also gave me more time for Beiber Fever, so I don’t see the mishap as a complete loss of time.

Now it’s ten-fifteen at night, and I’m back home in Van Buren. I’m sitting at Waffle House and just scarfed down my first meal since breakfast this morning in Houston. Well, unless you count a Big Gulp full of coffee as a meal. Anyway, I’m blogging here rather than at my parents’ house three minutes away because when I get home, I want to be home. I don’t want any work to do.

I think this is all I have to give for now. I’ve been pushing both my mind and body a lot lately, and I’m worn out. In more than one respect, I feel like I’ve been stretched to my limit. But today in the car I thought a lot about something one of my new friends (Matt) said last night. We were talking about tattoos, and he said he had one on the side of his rib cage, an arrow. (I didn’t see it, but it supposedly points toward his nipple. Like, I don’t know, in case he forgets where his nipple is located.) Anyway, Matt said the arrow reminds him that sometimes you have to go back before your can go forward. So I’ve been thinking that whenever you feel as if you’ve lost your way, whenever you feel stretched, and whenever you feel more pressure pushing on your back than you think you can handle, perhaps that pressure is exactly what’s required in order for you to soar.