Okay, this is kind of a big deal. I’m starting a blog before midnight. The reason for this small miracle is because I’m tired. I’d like to get this done and go to bed. As it turns out, when you sleep on a farm like I did last night, you have to wake up early–at least if the farm next door has a bulldozer that beeps every time it backs up. Oh well, shit happens, and thank God for coffee.

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think I could actually be a morning person. I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever be “one of those” morning people–you know the type–bouncing off the walls, annoying. But I could definitely function and be pleasant. This morning I sat on CJ’s porch, caffeinated, and watched the butterflies flap their wings and a spider make its nest. I also heard a wasp fly by my ear, but since I was half-naked, I screamed like a girl and didn’t stay outside for any more “morning wonders.” So I went in, took a shower, and almost slipped and fell on the slick floor. And before I could stop myself–just like an old person–I thought, God, a rubber mat would be nice.

This afternoon I made a pit-stop in Fayetteville for lunch (and more coffee) with my friend Ray. Then I went shopping for a new pair of jeans, since last week I split the seat out of mine. Plus, it’s my birthday next week, so I’d like new pants. That is, I’m assuming I won’t be spending the whole day naked. (Sigh.) Anyway, maybe I really am getting old and cranky, but when I was younger, buying jeans was easier. Now every item I pick up is basically a pair of yoga pants–skinny calves, stretchy all over–not flattering for people who eat pancakes for lunch. Still, I always try on these “rubber bottoms,” hoping. But they never work. My ankles are small, my butt is big–nothing fits. Talk about frustrating. The only positive thing to shopping today was all the calories I burned trying to get into and out of all that elastic denim.

It wasn’t pretty. Plus, still no birthday britches.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Change. Or maybe it was called Try Again. Obviously, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. But the idea is that two people start a scene, like maybe a couple is out to eat at Long John Silver’s. Then at some point in the dialogue, someone off stage (the director) says, “Change,” and the actors have to keep changing their dialogue until they get a green light.

“I sure would like the shrimp, honey.” (Change.)

“I sure would like the catfish, dear.” (Change.)

“Do these hush puppies make my butt look big?”

One of the benefits of the game is that it teaches you to think on your feet, to quickly let go of whatever you had in mind for the scene and go in a different direction. Of course, it’s hard as hell, but that’s the fun of it. No one has any idea what’s going to happen next. (Kind of like life.)

Back at the house tonight, Mom was already in bed, so Dad and I went to Waffle House for dinner. We both got the same thing, so it was almost like eating at home, except we didn’t have to do the dishes. I had two more cups of coffee, so even though I’m currently exhausted, my arms are shaking. Anyway, I made Dad take four selfies with me, and he was a good sport about it. But when we got home–maybe as payback–I had to give him his insulin shot. Granted, until tonight, I’d never given anyone a shot ever, but I thought, It can’t be that hard. Hell, I can put a nail in sheet rock like nobody’s business.

Of course, sheet rock doesn’t bleed.

Luckily, Dad didn’t either. I just counted to three, stuck the needle in as if I were picking up a piece of cheddar cheese with a toothpick, and slowly injected the insulin. Then I counted to ten, took out the needle, and rubbed the spot with alcohol. Dad said, “You don’t have to take the skin off.”

“Oh.”

Tonight I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to have a “change” or “try again” option for life. Like, there are a few (dozen–hundred–dozen hundred) things I’d like to do differently. Of course, we can’t go back. That being said, things are changing constantly, and I guess we really can begin again at any moment. We can always wake up one day and say, “This isn’t working for me anymore.” Really, I think life is constantly reminding us of this. I met a spiritual teacher once who said we get hung up because of how we identify. For example, I could think, “I’m a dance instructor,” and cause myself a lot of problems if I don’t have any students. He said the truth is always simpler. Like, in this moment, I’m a sitter because I’m sitting. If I wanted to go a step further, I could say that I’m a writer, but as soon as I close my laptop, I’m not a writer anymore.

This makes a lot of sense to me, but I often forget to remind myself that each day–each hour–I play many different roles. First I’m a coffee drinker (change), then maybe a yoga student (change), then a friend at lunch (change). Before the day is over, I’m a shot-giver! The mystics say this isn’t a problem unless you get stuck identifying with your past, which–by the way–only exists in your head. So one minute you’re healthy, then you’re sick, then your healthy again. Or one day you have a job, and then you don’t, and then (surely) you do again. And maybe it really is all a game. The mystics say that too, that life’s just exploring itself. One minute it’s here, the next minute it’s there. They say the joke is that the truth (reality) is right in front of you, it’s just always changing, sort of like a pair of pants.