The most important decision of my life — the one that's had the biggest impact — I made after spending a good five, maybe 10 minutes, weighing all the variables. There's no way it should have worked out.

All I really knew about Notre Dame was that my father had gone there and they had a football team. Harvard had recruited me. Not that I was such a hot candidate. They wanted a certain number of local students to balance their multinational student body. And among nearby males my age, I guess I was an acceptable choice. If, back then, they'd been considering females too, I doubt I'd have made their list. My guidance counselor pushed Harvard. And I'd heard it wasn't a bad school.

Then, I learned that if I promised to apply nowhere else, Notre Dame would let me know if I were accepted virtually immediately and I could blow off the rest of my senior year! (It may not have been described quite that way in the catalogue.) Decision made. From then on, I visited high school only occasionally, mostly to check on my record-breaking collection of "See the Vice-Principal — Re: Absences" messages. But either he never pursued it or he just couldn't find me. Or maybe he simply figured South Bend would be punishment enough.

Because, though it never figured in my planning, the following September did eventually arrive. And I soon learned that South Bend, Ind., had, by actual measurement — mine — the single worst climate on this or possibly any other planet. Apparently, Siberian gulags enforced behavior by threatening to send offenders to South Bend. That would also explain a few of the locals I ran into.

Still, maybe the priests had made some sort of deal with God or the football coaches had made a deal with the devil — or vice versa. Whatever the reason, South Bend's weather was gorgeous from the first football game until the end of the regular season on Thanksgiving weekend. After that, it was gust-driven snow — broken only by the occasional suicide-slate-gray day — until a single beautiful afternoon in May, known as spring. From there, it was unbearably hot with unbreathable humidity until the next football season.

Then there were the women. Or more accurately, there were no women. The women's college across the road from Notre Dame was far smaller than I had somehow led myself to believe. And virtually all of them were products of Catholic high schools (See Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young" about starting much too late.) That may also explain the guys at Notre Dame who leaned out their windows and screamed things at any woman who crossed the freshman quad.

Occasionally on Sundays, women would be bused in from some celibate place in Chicago for a dance, then bused back out before dinner. We were only allowed to smell them.

I wasn't even Catholic. My decision had been completely irresponsible. And it could hardly have worked out better. Ultimately, it's why I have the life I have today. Which, in spite of my best efforts, is pretty damn good.

Among those who didn't scream at distant women, I made a number of excellent friends. At the small women's college and in town, I met some wonderful women. And fortunately, both Notre Dame and I changed quickly and profoundly. I got a solid education — or at least the beginnings of one, which is all college really is — at an almost unbelievably reasonable cost.

Even the religious requirement was okay. Mostly. I took: Biblical Development, Judaism, Islam and something that I think was called An Interminable 90 Minutes of Hell Every Tuesday and Thursday. Football also worked out well. The team won the National Championship my freshman year. Later, when I no longer cared, selling my student tickets provided the funds to make many of those perfect fall days considerably more magical.

Even the miserable weather taught me that I never wanted to live in the cold and snow again. It got me to Santa Barbara. Though that lesson came a lot sooner than the solution.

Barry Maher's dark humor supernatural thriller, "The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon," has just been released. Contact him and/or sign up for his newsletter at www.barrymaher.com.

To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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