"The nice thing about living in a small town is that when you don't know what you're doing, some one else does."

I don't know whether I find this quote reassuring or terrifying.

No matter, the one thing I do know it to be is truthful.

Because, as I find myself sitting here on the first night in my eggshell-colored, dishwasher-free, two-bedroom apartment in Tiny Town, USA (written in my best 'Chandler Bing' voice: could there BE anymore hyphens in that sentence?!) I try to identify and assess my feelings: trepidation, hope, chagrin. An emotional cocktail tailored specifically for me. Yet there's a whisper of a feeling that I wasn't prepared for, but perhaps am not surprised by: nostalgia.

Nostalgia induced by the fact that I, Alyssa Lynn, have done the unthinkable. The one thing that if some one had asked me previously if there was even a slight possibility of it, I would have scoffed at the prosperous idea. But here I sit, upon conclusion of the most incredulous, unimaginable, snowball's-chance-in-hell, (and, via our favorite Wallace Shawn character) inconceivable action I never thought I'd admit to doing.

I've moved back to my hometown.

(Note: I don't actually live in Hell. I think that's somewhere in Michigan.)

Yes, it's true. I'm not joking. This is not a hoax. Nobody hacked into Harry Potter (my appropriately pet-named laptop) and thought "What better way to embarrass and ridicule Alyssa than to create a fictitious tell-all blog about moving back to her hometown in Minnesota! What fun!". (Now, remind me, why am I writing this again?)

Back to the land of red meat, white potatoes and white bread ("let me butter that for you.."). Back to streets without stoplights (not one!). Back to giving one-finger courtesy waves to every car that passes by, "just in case". Back to a town that still employs a Maytag Man but hasn't a single fast-food restaurant.

Now, it's almost 10:30pm. on a Saturday night. Usually I'd be out on the town- sitting in some semi-chic downtown bar sipping my "signature" drink (vanilla Stoli vodka & diet coke with a lime), chatting with friends, flirting with guys, feigning interest.

I could walk two blocks and I'd have my pick of Tiny Town's plethora of watering holes- the VFW, the American Legion, the Muni...

I could sit on a bar stool next to some long-lost classmate of mine, listening to them exclaim with strictly alcohol-induced excitement "I haven't seen you forever!" and then fill me in on which other Tiny Town classmate they married (So and So was two years older than us, remember?) , how many people they packed into the Legion for the wedding reception (we had to narrow it down to 400, it was so hard!), how many snotty-nosed rugrats they've got at home (3, but we're thinking of trying for another this fall, I don't want to be an old mom!).

On second thought, I think I'll go to bed.

Who knows, maybe I'll wake up early enough to walk down and join the old men for coffee at the C-Store before church.