P eriodically, I feel imbued with a certain out-of-body power where I can shirk my 9-to-5 existence -- the broken oven forcing me to eat cold soup out of a can, the lady at work who always mentions it's Monday on Monday, the general malaise I feel towards my bank account -- and take stock of my life.

Nearly always, I decide I need to be doing something completely different.

Right now, I write this column, I run the Boulder Outdoor Cinema, and I work a stupid amount of hours ensuring the little online ads on fourteen different newspapers' websites show up correctly.

I can't get my laundry done like a normal person, because the laundry room closes before I get home and I refuse to get up early to do the whites.

I don't have a 401K going, and at my age, I should probably have a semi-retired dog who follows me from room to room with only the plan to lie down five feet away, a couple of tow-headed kids to drive to soccer practice, and a killer casserole recipe.

Some part of me thinks I should be feeling badly about missing out on all that but I can't muster the interest.

I also don't think I'm alone in feeling this way. I suspect everyone I know is busy grinding out their lives, showering and gym-ing and going to work and coming home and emptying the dishwasher and watching shows and drinking beer and going to bed to start it all over again hours later.

Last week, I was struck by what can only be described as a fact: I should be a drummer.

I don't know where it came from, I wasn't at a concert, I wasn't listening to Zeppelin ... in all likelihood, I was watching some super-English, historical BBC show, wishing I had a clean, white T-shirt for the next day, and eating cold soup from the can like a dang hobo.

But suddenly I wanted to be a drummer so badly, I almost got off the couch and looked up drumming lessons in Boulder.

I want to be the dude with the abnormally floppy hair that clicks the sticks together before a song, counting off, signaling to everyone in the band it's time to play "Two States" and in about 25 seconds, we -- as a band -- need to be screaming in unison, "FORTY! MILLION! DAGGERS!" (If you're not a Pavement fan, it's OK, but look up the song and tell me you don't wanna scream along to the chorus while driving 5-7 mph over the speed limit.)

I know drummers pull funny faces while they're high-hatting and snaring and kick-drumming and cowbelling, and after being told my Concentration Face is very close to duck-face, I'm a little chilled by what may happen if I actually get sticks in my hands.

I'm foreseeing crossed-eyes, pursed lips and flared nostrils. While I'm not all that vain, I prefer my face not get stuck that way.

It might be a weird, lady-style, middle-aged crisis, but I know I'm not the only one.

Maybe it's a stretch, but then again, I can still point to every professional drummer in existence and know there's a small army of people out there who prefer figuring out the rhythm of a song over basically everything required of day-to-day existence.

What's the point of living if you don't sometimes feel fired up to try something new? Even if you think there's an afterlife, or several of them, or nothing at all, I'm fairly confident in thinking that this moment is the only one you'll get like this. So pick up your proverbial drumsticks, figure out which band you want to be in, and let's all start living.