How to change a wiper blade

Get lost three times on way to car dealer, who has blades, unlike every gas station in 20-mile radius.
Park.
When spare parts man asks what year the car is (you were proud you remembered the make) say, “eh, not sure.” In response to funny look: “It’s my wife’s car.”
“Where’s it parked?” he asks. Point it out. Notice you’ve parked wrong, and in an absurd place, as if you were on drugs. You’re not. That’s the problem: you’re not on drugs. It’s seven in the morning and no coffee yet.
He changes blades. Pay and leave.
Drink coffee.
Blog.
Walk kid to school.
Go into town with wife, to shop for clothes and Japanese food and maybe look at a hotel or two for upcoming visitors. If there is time. And it’s not raining too hard.

Metamorphosism