Today has been a full day. I’ve been full of coffee, consequently full of anxiety, and–this evening–full of spaghetti. But seriously, folks, I’ve been nervous all day–buzzing, even before the coffee. This morning I woke up and took my blood sugar just because I’ve been so on-edge physically. And whereas my blood sugar was a little high (my dad said it was great, but he’s a chocolate-cake-eating diabetic that thinks anything under 300 is “great”), I’m not sure that it would explain my feeling shaky. Oh well, just one more thing to talk to my doctors about next week.

This afternoon I had a follow-up appointment with my dermatologist regarding my very personal rash (where no one wants a rash). An inflammation whose cause is unknown, that’s what the nurse said it was when the biopsy report came back over six weeks ago. Thankfully, things are a lot, lot better, but not completely back to normal. This seems to be a theme with my health this last year–issues improve, but like all the flies in my parents’ kitchen, they don’t go away. (Assholes.) Anyway, the doctor today said it was technically “a dermal hypersensitivity that could have a number of causal factors.” In other words, my boys are pissed off and no one knows why, but I should continue to “keep things dry and avoid friction.”

“Oh–and–that’ll be a hundred-and-twenty-five dollars, Mr. Coker.”

Seriously, I don’t know any business other than the medical profession where people PAY to be told, “We don’t know what the answer is.”

Yesterday I blogged about being scared of everything, specifically trying new things like penning a travel-writing article or picking out pictures for a travel-writing article. My therapist says that owning your fears is a big part of healing, and I guess she’s right, since yesterday I was all a-twitter about picking out pictures, but this afternoon after having owned my shit last night, I got the entire job done with little to no anxiety. That’s me smirking about my accomplishment in the photo above. The Peabody Duck, which I got during my travel-writing trip to Memphis, is actually a disguised USB drive with press photos on it. (The Peabody is a famous hotel with trained mallard ducks that march down a red carpet and into a fountain in the lobby every day.)

How cool is that?

I’ve spent the rest of the day running errands, teaching dance, and reading a new book about stand-up comedy by Stephen Rosenfield. It’s genius, and my inner student loves the fact that stand-up, just like dance, has its history and pioneers, as well as its tried-and-true rules that are meant to be followed as well as broken. Really, I’m riveted, and I’d probably be done with the book by now except I keep going to YouTube to watch the comedians the book mentions. Of course, this isn’t a terrible way to spend an evening–laughing. Plus, as the book points out, comedy takes life’s tragedies and makes them bearable. When we can laugh at our burdens, they automatically become lighter.

Here’s something. For years, maybe even decades, one of my biggest gripes about my lovely father is that he’s an interrupter. Specifically, he’s a me-interrupter. At least that’s what gets on my nerves. This usually happens when I’m in the middle of a story, often in response to his asking, “What did you do today, son, oh fruit of my loins?” Like, let’s say I’m going on about being in the dermatologist’s office and how the dermatologist is telling me, “You don’t want to use steroid cream and anti-fungal powder at the same time because that would be like mixing milk and flour together and getting frosting.” But before I can even get to the part about the dermatologist saying, “And you wouldn’t want GENITAL FROSTING,” Dad’s interrupts me and starts talking about a cake with chocolate frosting he ate at the senior citizen’s center last Friday. Like, licking his lips and everything. “It was WONDERFUL.”

Historically, this type of behavior has really pissed me off because (as my father’s child), being interrupted makes me feel minimized and unimportant, as if what I have to say doesn’t matter. I’ve said this to Dad before, and he says that’s not the case. “If I don’t say what I’m thinking right away, I’ll forget it,” he says. And whereas I don’t completely buy this excuse (or buy it at all), I have come to accept it. At the very least, since interrupting is my dad’s habit with–well–most people, I’ve come to not take it so personally.

[At this point I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever interrupted you, dear reader, and say that I really have been working on fixing the problem for a while now.]

Okay. All that being said, this morning I’m sitting at the breakfast table, still in a daze from the anti-histamines I took last night, chewing away on grilled chicken and scrambled eggs. And BAM–out of freakin’ nowhere!–Dad starts apologizing for “all those years” he interrupted me. Oh my God, y’all, I almost choked on my cheddar cheese. Suspicious, I said, “Where is this coming from?” Dad said, “Well, your aunt interrupts me on the phone sometimes when I’m in the middle of a sentence, and IT DRIVES ME CRAZY.”

I put down my fork and leaned back in my chair. “Payback is a real bitch.”

Twelve hours later, I’m still in shock. All these years of asking Dad to change and getting nothing, and now this, unsolicited. Not that I expect Dad’s habits to turn around overnight, but–as they say–the first step is admitting you have a problem (not someone else admitting you have a problem). But truly, I’m in awe at the way life works. Wayne Dyer tells a story about a cat that chases its tail. Of course, he never catches it. Then one day he decides to give up trying and go about his life. Later the cat comments, “You know, it’s funny. Now my tail follows me everywhere I go.” To me this means that sometimes you have to stop trying so damn hard. To me it means that whether it’s an apology or the answer to a healthcare problem, maybe you have to give up wanting something before you can actually have it. (Ain’t that a bitch?) So this is my new mantra–Stop chasing your own tail, Marcus. Now as for chasing someone else’s tail, well, that’s another matter.

That was a sex joke, Mom.