At 40, I was accepted to law school—and almost attnended. The series of events had a comical side. How did I end up applying to law school in the first place, already happy with a career, busy as I could be, and not really prone to argumentation or forensics.

The application was sparked at dinner in Seaside with a friend who happened to know faculty from that school. The conversation continued into a discussion of me applying to law school. Possibly the thought allayed some sense of restleness at the moment, or a desire to do more, be more, a sort can achieve more infection. I recall musing aloud about expanding my psychology practice into forensic psychology.

 I duly rounded up recommendation letters, took the LSAT, and applied to a law school that was not necessarily Columbia or Yale, but had some regional acceptance. I even convinced myself I was ready. But when it came time to hit the road, to actually show up at classes, I made an excuse. Mounting expenses and procrastination won out. I never showed.

The restaurant seemed to have a magical effect of providing plans that never turned out, for better or worse. A few years late, Years over dinner at the same restaurant, I met the producer of The Truman Show. She was in Seaside prepping the town for the Jim Carrey film. I helped out and was even offered a small speaking role—maybe the mailman who waves hello, or a cashier who says thanks. But once again, work prevailed. Instead, I arranged for a skilled ARNP to provide medical services for the cast. Just another near-miss.

These accidents of fate occur from time to time. In terms of accidents, though, I notice that peer baby boomers often describe how free wheeling childhood was back in the day. We stayed out till all hours, we didnt use seat belts, we played risky sports without protective gear. To some degree this is romanticizing the past. On the other, I do recall having far more injuries as a child than seems usual. There were burns from melting plastic army men, bicycle crashes, deep knee gashes,  head knockings, scraping along the bottom of school busses as they took on icy roads and we grabbed the fenders,  broken teeth, jumps from garage roofs, hospital visits, and various other scar-leaving activities. It was not a bad way to grow up--probably helped us learn that the human body is for the most part sturdy and self-heals. Those childhood scars taught me that our bodies are tougher than we think. We fall, we bleed, we heal—and we move on. Those experiences grounded me in a belief: life doesn’t always follow a plan, and sometimes the detours define us more than the path we never took.