Adult Swim

Adult swim. Two words that, during youthful days of imaginative play and endless hope, were as soul crushing as any you could ever dream up.

Have you ever accidentally stepped on a firefly, only to watch it crumble and sparkle as it dies it's elegant ass death? Fireflies, summer manifest in an insect: glorious, beautiful, free, shiny and short-lived.

Well, adult swim felt like someone was stepping on a firefly on purpose. And you were the firefly, crumbling beside your purple fun-noodle, glowing with the white-hot heat of rage.

Adults were always allowed in the pool, so why did they also get an appointed time where you weren't? Begrudgingly, you would pull yourself up the side of the pool, feeling the hot stones of the concrete sink into your palms, and scratching your knees against the pool's fiberglass side. Moping, you would drag your feet over to the patch of grass where your family had set up for the day, all the while tugging at your persistent bathing suit wedgie. Sorrowfully, you would sit down on your Little Mermaid towel and stare down at the pool full of adults with eyes of Pure Hatred.

And then, at some point, we all grow up (or at the very least, we age) and become part of the "adult swim" demographic. And, if you're anything like me, you're desperate to go take a dip in the public pool. But you're not so desperate that you would dare brave the throngs of small children in order to do so. And there are small children in mind-boggling numbers; they form sticky-fingered mobs, pee in the pool, and glare at you with Pure Hatred when it's time for "adult swim." It's frightening and unhygienic.

 What about if the pool has swim lanes, you might ask? Bitch. Please. Do I look like I want to exercise right now? It's 90-190 degrees outside, it might even be too much effort for me to get to the pool, let alone to get there and decide I'm going to swim 50 laps because HEALTH and WELLNESS. No. I want to float about at my leisure with a goddamn margarita in hand. I will also accept a pina colada. If I wanted to exercise, I'd dance around to some Wii Fitness game in my living room. With the blinds drawn, because I'm too fat from all those margaritas and all that time not doing lap swims. Neighbors do not want to see that.

So clearly, while I was driving around in my hoopty with no A/C, I started to think about "adult swim." I also started to hallucinate because HOLY GOD it gets hot out here on the Atlantic Seaboard, and I am a Bay Area girl who can only tolerate temperatures up to around 80 degrees before slipping into a coma.

Where was I ? Ah yes... Adult swim is a metaphor for the entire crap-ass situation we call adulthood. I mean, some people call it that. I don't. I call it: pretending to have my shit together, despite not even knowing what that means. The adult world is like this massive pool, spanning continents, full of awesome stuff like: waterfalls, castles, legal prostitution, you name it! And we, the adults of the world, only get a few measly minutes of "adult swim" time in that pool. The rest of the time, we're responsible for making sure the pool stays clean, feeding the inhabitants of the pool (self included), and paying all the goddamn water bills for the pool.

When you're a kid, life is all about riding atop ice cream clouds on sugar ponies, and even when life sucks: it's still your time to swim, 90% of the time. As an adult, your moments of joy are meted out to you in small doses. You work 40, 50, 60 hours a week and your reward? 30 minutes of "adult swim" (e.g.: watching the Real Housewives of Bombay Beach cook meth on their camping stoves). Also: hemorrhoids. So the truth is, ADULT SWIM SUCKS as a kid, and it sucks as an adult. No matter what age you are, you feel like you're a sparkly little lightning bug being stepped on by a a thousand feet.

SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

What I wouldn't give right now for 10 delicious tacos and a private pool/cabana.

But I'm in Baltimore, so I'll have to settle for some crappy tacos and my cat-hair-covered couch.

It's a TRAP: Dating the DSM* Manual Way! (Pt. 7)

We're All Crazy Here

I should have known that this was a bad idea, because it didn't feel right. He wanted to be together all the time, but he was completely withdrawn physically. I was so excited about being back in his graces, that I just figured it was OK, it would take time to get back to a place where we could be physically comfortable with each other. Patience, young Jodi.

Turns out he was weird because he was still dating his Ex Girlfriend. I learned this one fateful morning when she showed up to "surprise" him and, using her key to his place, came sneaking into the bedroom. Where I was sleeping. Where we were sleeping (and just sleeping, remember, nothing physical). To make this whole thing even BETTER, he did not wake up, I did. I woke up and stared at her. She yelled, screamed, took off down the stairs, and I told him "WAKE UP! EG is here and you need to care of this!" And you know what? He wouldn't, at first. He finally decided to go talk to her when he heard her throwing shit about.

When he came back upstairs and she was gone, he told me she was crazy! They had broken up! He couldn't believe he didn't get the key back from her! And I bought it. Because I clearly would buy ANYTHING during this time. You defs could have sold me the frackin' London Bridge, I'd have BOUGHT THAT SHIT. I mean, I had seen something recently on her FB about going to the movies in RoPo, on the motorcycle, and I just assumed it meant she had a NEW boyfriend with a motorcycle. Bridge. London. Mine.

And that was that. I got an angry message on FB from her best friend, accusing me of being a whore and whatnot. But that was it. She went, she was gone, we were together, everything was going to be otay!

For reals, it had to be great. He got a job. A GOOD job. And we moved to the South Bay, into an awesome apartment in the same complex where my sister was living! How ideal! How could this not be win? He was being nice, for the most part, if still a bit weird and distant. But not mean, and we weren't tearing it up like crazy people, so I was feeling pretty OK about things. Not good though. I never felt good.

I probably never felt good, because he was still definitely involved with EG. This came to the fore at our housewarming party when I happened to look over his shoulder and see him texting EG with, "I miss you, too, baby." Uh, baby? Excuse me? So I brought this shit up as soon as our guests had left (shouldn't have waited), and his sole response was to get in bed, tell me I was being out of control/crazy/irrational, and tune me out. I could have beaten him in the head with a rock and he would have continued to just pretend I wasn't there. So I left.

I left and went to visit my FWB. I didn't know where else to go. I couldn't go home and admit to my mom what was going on...what if we worked through things?! Then she'd hate him forever! I couldn't risk her opinion of him (which probably was already total shit). So FWB and I walked out to the beach and we sat there, and he held me, listened while I cried, smoothed my hair, and took care of me. I proceeded to spend the next 2 (3?) days curled up in his bed, crying off and on, until I finally got the gumption to go back to my apartment and face the problem. That was a hard thing to do after several days of being with a kind, warm person...plus his mom makes these incredible quilts...and I was pretty fucking cozy. Anyway, I had to go face the music.

Tune in for Part VIII: Face the Music
*=DSM still stands for Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, criteria for classifying mental disorders.