Time to go home.

I live in the suburbs. I always have. But I have roots in the country. I'm kind of half-and-half. My mom was a poor country girl. My dad was a poor city boy. What better place for me than the suburbs - that hodgepodge of identity crisis whose battles consist of Sam's vs CostCo and Zoysia vs a hearty Rye blend. Not having the balls to commit to either the relaxed pace of the Ozark hills or the frantic, eye-twitching sleeplessness of bullet-ridden nights has landed me comfortably amid mega-malls and neatly manicured summer lawns. Genetic practicality has afforded me an ever-increasing skillset, including the ability to edge my lawn with a weed whacker rather than investing in an actual edger.

But I love to stick my toes into the waters of the extremes. I can't wait to go out to eat at an adventurous ethnic restaurant in the city, some place where the food contains ingredients I've never heard of and is cooked by people who don't live down the street from me and are maybe from a different country even. And I love to take trips to the country. I love to fool myself into thinking that I belong there, with the smell of cow manure and roadkill passing briefly through my open car windows, just long enough to remind me that I like the smell of smoke from the flame grill at Burger King a little more.

So I relished the opportunity to go train for my company in Small Town, Missouri for two days this week. Yes, back to the country for me. Earlier this week, I went downtown to a Cardinal's game and saw people working in the parking lot and concession stands that probably lived in the city. My urban fix was secure. So, I packed light - the camera, the book I secured from (where else?) Borders, and a Nutrigrain bar for the road - and I was off to educate our country cousins for a couple of days.

I was excited on the ride there. Company car, free gas and meals, and a free night at the Days' Inn. Hmmmm. The Days' Inn. I hoped it was up to my high motel standards. I'm used to the Holiday Inn Express, after all, with pillows labeled 'Firm' and 'Soft' and bathroom fixtures that they will actually sell you online. Now that's a premium on comfort, by God. I actually asked people at work if they'd ever stayed at the Days' Inn before I left. I didn't understand their lack of interest.

I arrived at the training facility, which was actually moved from the training room to a different building that housed a room attached to an actual horse arena, complete with obstacles for the horse (or whoever) to jump over. The smell was, well, equestrian. The sun was up, the day was hot, and the air conditioner was set to 78 degrees, which was about 8 degrees above the tolerable temperature in that particular room. So, with festering nostrils and sweating forehead, I trained the locals on our way of business.

I noticed during the training that eyeballs frequently darted from my presentation to the arena window. During a break I realized that there was a girl all decked out in horse riding garb atop a sleek-looking black horse of some kind. She had the funny hat, high boots, white pants, red jacket, and whip thing in her hand. The horse had white tape on both front shins. They looked fantastic. I watched as she led the horse gracefully to the obstacles, all of which the horse knocked down without ever leaving the ground. Wow. I leaned over to an observing trainee, who in hindsight was probably the girl's mother, and mentioned jokingly, "I don't know much about horses, but isn't the object to jump over those poles?" She wasn't amused. Maybe it was my suburban accent.

Training ended for the day, and I discovered to my great delight that my room at the Days' Inn was not only tolerable but downright comfortable. I showered away the arena sweat, grabbed the camera, and headed for the park just outside town to take some pics of the local scenery. The kind lady in the entrance booth informed me it would cost me five bucks to enter the park. What? I think I said that aloud. She smiled and said, "Y'all can turn around right there if you want?" So I (and whoever else made up y'all) turned promptly around and yelled, "Our parks in the suburbs are FREE!" Well, I yelled it in my head anyway. I am from the suburbs.

The next day I got adventurous for lunch and headed to McDonald's. I almost went to the local diner, but figured they didn't take my company American Express card, so I played it safe. You know me. Well, I was heading back down the two lane road to the facility, angus burger digesting pleasantly and the air conditioner maxed, when I saw him. Gross jeans and a grimy tank top with long black greasy hair looking right at me from atop his green riding lawn mower. Now mind you, this man was not sitting on a large tractor. This was just a small riding mower, so small his knees buckled over the edges as he headed down his lawn towards the road. I was driving 55. He was looking right into my windshield. I was driving 55. He was cutting his grass on a small riding mower and approaching the edge of his yard (not lawn) doing about 4, and looking RIGHT AT ME. I was driving 55, but now hitting the brake. He was ENTERING THE HIGHWAY FROM HIS FRONT YARD LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I was swerving onto the six inch weedy gravel shoulder. He turned the small riding mower towards me, smiling a toothless, meth-infested smile as he caressed the inside of the yellow line while my company car with air conditioning maxed and flowing over my forehead blew past him at almost 55 miles an hour.

I think I laid on my horn when I was past his property line. That's just crazy. People in the suburbs don't play chicken with cars while riding a small riding mower with their knees buckling over the side. Good Lord. It was time to go home.