The right person for the right town

It’s a peculiar thing to realize, the place you're born is like a lottery ticket - sometimes you scratch and win a bit of sunshine, and sometimes it's just a stub reminding you that you could have had more. I suppose that's why going to boarding school felt like I'd hit the jackpot. It wasn't about the education, though I guess that helped. It was about shedding the skin of being the wrong person in the wrong town. You know the type – towns where the most exciting event is the bi-weekly bingo night, and the biggest scandal is old Mr. Henderson's roaming tabby.

I used to be someone there. Not someone of note, mind you, unless you count being noted for not fitting in. A round peg trying to jam himself into a square hole because the brochure said, "One size fits all." But that’s the thing about coastal towns – they have a certain shape, and woe betide those who can’t contort accordingly. I had to escape before I whittled myself away to nothing trying.

And let me tell you, escaping to a middling city, it's like upgrading from a moldy basement to a room with a view. Not that I'm living the high life. I'm not the guy in a penthouse sipping champagne; I’m the guy in the elevator, going up, but enjoying the muzak more than I expected. Stardom? It was in the cards they said, if I gave a damn. Sometimes, I’d hover my finger over that button, tempted to care, to really try. But you know how it is. Caring is a lot of work.

Caring is a bit like looking at my gut and knowing, with a little effort, I could see my toes again. There’s incentive there – I'm told women prefer a man whose belt they can see without a mirror. But salads taste like wilted dreams and exercise is a hamster wheel for humans. So, my gut stays, a testament to my apathy, and the ladies, well, they stay just out of reach. It’s a comfortable discomfort.

Now, the real kicker, the real cherry on top of my 'escape the coastal life' sundae, was the allergies. The coast and my sinuses were at war, and I was the battlefield littered with tissues and the remains of nasal sprays. I was allergic to everything, except, ironically, dandelions. And wouldn't you know, they were considered weeds. The one thing the town wanted to get rid of was the one thing I could get close to.

So, there I was, the wrong boy for the town, suddenly the right-ish man for this new place. It didn’t match the sweet dreams of childhood, where I was destined for greatness – or at least for not needing antihistamines. But here, in this city that’s okay with just being okay, I found a slice of peace, nestled between complacency and the occasional wild Friday night with more pizza than people.

I never went back to that town. Some folks say you can't outrun your past. Maybe they’re right. But you can outrun a place where the biggest aspiration is to become manager of the local grocery store. And maybe, just maybe, if you run far enough, you find a spot that fits just right, like an old shoe you forgot how much you loved.

And who knows, one of these days, I might even care enough to polish it.