I recently started a new position as a crepier — a crepe-maker — at a new cafe that opened in downtown. It seems like I spend most of my waking hours on my feet behind a hot griddle, pouring and spreading batters, sauteeing fillings, folding and serving up crepes. It’s such a blast, even though after four consecutive days at the creperie this weekend I’m starting to forget when I’ve been at home last. And after drifting off to sleep one night, I found myself half-dreaming about the different crepe folding techniques we’ve been learning…not exactly the most soothing way to end a long day, but it’s something I spend so much time doing, my brain is imprinting what my muscles already have down by memory. I have more burns on my hands and fingers than I think I’ve ever received in my whole life, and I’ve certainly eaten more crepes than I have before. I have a new appreciation for headscarves and orthopedic clogs, and for my husband who tidies the house and waters the plants while I’m working. But it is very physical labor — and for eight hours at a once, sometimes — and I’m beginning to long for a vacation. Tomorrow’s Independence Day mini-trip to my parents’ house will be a welcome respite, hopefully full of watermelon and shady hours by the pool. And perhaps I can cure my crepe-dreams by watching the fireflies blink at nightfall, and let that image rest behind my eyelids. This is just a bit of life lately: busy, physically tiring, fast-paced, but a new sort of creative.