You buy 27 hand fans. Seriously, one would have sufficed.

You wake up and declare that you've got to sell the house and move 3,000 miles to a place you've never been. For no reason whatsoever.

You rip down a mountain pass yelling, "Mario Andretti's got nothing on me! I should've been a race car driver!" Intermittantly with loudly singing along to blaring music. On 2 hours of sleep, driving 8 hours to see people for a weekend. And barely sleep. And never shut up.