Some days I feel like turning my life upside down.

Lately I’ve been noticing just how routine my, well, routine is. I like it and all, since I’ve always been solidly in the creature-of-habit camp. But it’s nearing that “something’s gotta give before I go crazy” stage.

Wake up, make the bed, guzzle some water, feed the cat while frying an egg, eat the egg while making my coffee, pack my lunch, mosey in for a shower while letting the coffee cool down on the counter, preen while drinking cooled-down coffee, dress, drive to work, work, drive home, exercise, sleep. Repeat.

I asked my dad a number of years back if he ever thought to himself, “Is this all there is?” in the context of routines, morning or otherwise.

“Yep,” he said.

Hm. A short and simple answer.

I’m getting fidgety. Antsy. In fact, I think I have my own multi-year itch happening. It’s not necessarily a seven-year itch, since the time period varies, but it’s an itch nonetheless.

Do they make a cream for this?

Seven years ago, I moved back to California from Connecticut. Five years before that, I moved home to California from Michigan. If history tells me anything, it’s saying that it’s about time for something to change yet again – and it’s speaking in a relatively loud voice. Hopefully it’s change for the better, and not change due to a death or earthquake or what have you. Hey, just being realistic.

Over the last few years, I’ve filled my time with things to ease the itch. An acting class, screenwriting classes, playwriting courses, bartending school, a sommelier course, photography here and there, a cover band and – assuming I stick with it – there’s a calligraphy class I should be starting next month. But classes only go so far.

Not long after the “yep” from my dad, the winds of change blew my parents 25 miles away. They left their home of 33 years – the only home I’d ever known – and started anew in the town where my grandparents lived for a few decades.

I don’t know quite how to put it, but it’s almost as though the short answer was indicative of big change. Perhaps a longer answer would’ve hinted at a bit of complacency and they’d have stayed put for five or ten more years, but – even then – the “yep” struck a chord deep inside of me. They were undeniably ready for change, not that either of them knew what the change would ultimately end up being.

If you’d have asked me last year if I was ready for change, my answer would’ve been rambling, perhaps a few sentences or even paragraphs long. It would’ve spoken of the desire for an entirely new job , for a trip here or there, or for even a new class. If you ask me now, it’s a short answer not unlike my dad’s was a few years ago. What it will be, who knows. But today I am thankful for knowing I’m ready for it.