Almost getting run over by the doctor who helped deliver you is one of those things that can only happen when you move back to the land of your birth.

Today was a five on a one to ten scale. I woke up at 8:30 a.m. as I am prone to do and had nothing to do. Law school has ceased tormenting me for three months and the law firm where I will work this summer will not begin tormenting me until next week. I ate oatmeal and drank coffee and read the Omaha World Herald and did the crossword. After I had my morning bowel movement, I decided to go for a run. That’s when Dr. Itkin approached the stop sign too fast with no sign of slowing down. I could tell he couldn’t see me. A normal driver would have seen me, but I could tell, by the boat-like nature of his sedan, that this driver was an old guy with bad eyes. I thought I’d saunter out into the street. I wanted him to almost hit me so that he would temper his giddy-up and future runners and pedestrians whose arrival at this intersection coincides with his would be protected. Then I recognized him and sort of wished he had hit me, just because it would make a great story. I also wanted him to hit me, because then, provided that the run-in didn’t actually kill me, I could add this incident to my list of things that I point to when I am second-guessing and regretting my decision to move back here. (Other items on the list include the speeding ticket I recently got, allergy flare-up this past pollen season, difficulty in dealing with cingular to change my phone number to a 402 area code number, and weight gain.)

I know I am the captain of my own ship, but sometimes I blame my mother for my recent, totally voluntary relocation back to the Midwest. She made me feel guilty for being so far away and for having so much fun. She didn’t do it on purpose. She is Catholic and her mother probably made her feel the same way. Nonetheless, I find it necessary to keep a list of reasons why I never should have moved back here so that one day the list will be so long or there will be something on there worthy of 72pt font and then I can take the list to her and say, “Mother, I tried, I really tried, I wanted to be here. I wanted to get settled here so that I could help my siblings take care of you when you are an old nut, but the universe seems to be pushing me out. I don’t want to have to buy plane tickets to come see you or to have to dial three extra numbers when calling you, but things just aren’t working out for me here. I think I would be better off elsewhere.” Then she would take a look at my list and say, “Oh my, you poor thing, my child. I appreciate your efforts, but please, do what you must.”

This will not happen. I will not show her my list. I would never act on this resentment, which I didn’t realize I harbored until I wrote that last paragraph. I hope instead that the next year of my life will be better than the last. I hope to find contentment here in this place where I grew up. I hope that in ten years (hopefully five) I can look back on this decision to move back here and see why it was a good move. Maybe I will meet someone. Maybe I will start writing again. Maybe I will actually like my job this summer. Maybe in five or ten years I will be one of those assholes walking around saying that I have no regrets, but I will never get to that point if I spend my time frantically scribbling down my list.