What is Indigestion: An Adult is Born

I stood staring at the one woman in line for the bathroom at the otherwise empty Peet's Coffee & Tea in Santa Monica. Peet's are almost always empty, so I was a little peeved that the one patron other than myself was the only thing keeping me from relief before an hour-long drive in gridlock traffic across the 10 to home.

Or is it the 110? I can never remember. They both suck. 

Either way, the woman looked like one of those marathon urinators. I could just tell it would take her forever to pee and then she would wash her hands for the full recommended twenty seconds while I refreshed my Instagram feed in vain ten more times as I cursed women everywhere for having such ginormous bladders when I could have been in and out in under ten seconds. I pee incredibly fast and keep Purell in my car.

So, I left. 

As I stood waiting to cross the street - already sure I would get a UTI even though I'm not sure how that happens or if boys can get them - I watched a traffic cop stick a ticket on a windshield before climbing into his little clown car. You know the ones. They look like a Radio Flyer with a cardboard box around it. I felt sorry for both suckers, the "cop" doomed to feel power through expired meters and the schmuck who was surely being price gouged by the city of Santa Monica because they just wanted to spend a couple of hours at the beach on MLK Day. 

And then I saw the Michigan license plate. Oh shit. I was the schmuck and I didn't even see the ocean. 

Story goes, I was late for my coffee meeting with the Agent's Assistant because I was coming from another coffee meeting with the Producer's Assistant, and the local traffic through Beverly Hills moving west on any day is daunting. Since I was so flustered and trying to make a good impression, I leapt from my car into oncoming traffic to avoid any further delay and forgot to feed the meter. 

I did take a second to wonder what would have happened if a Prius had hit me. Do you think a Prius could do any damage to a human? They're like made out of foil, right?

The poetic justice of it all is that I successfully got away with an empty meter for an hour and a half, but since I wasted three minutes staring at that woman waiting to pee in Peet's, I paid the price. A fifty dollar price. I blame her fully. 

And what the hell kind of a charge is that for not putting two dollars into a parking meter? Let's see Obama address THAT at his State of the Union. 

As I crawled home riding my brakes at 10mph, I felt a strange pang. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack - I'm probably due for one - but then I realized it was just me growing up. 

In one weekend, I shrugged off a parking ticket. I lost a credit card and called to cancel it. I was gathering W2s to pay my own taxes parent-help-free for the first time (believe it when you see it.) I took a car that I kind of own for an oil change. I bought shelves. SHELVES! I am truly coming into my own out here in LA. 

So even though I'm in my pajamas drinking a beer at 4pm, I've decided to stop calling myself a kid and start calling myself an adult. Because I believe I can do this. And because my bank account reached four figures for the first time since 2007. 

Do I need a prostate exam? When does that kick in?

Adult,

TJB: Making It