When I drive kids around in my car, I always keep the doors locked.
That didn’t sound right reading it a few times but what I meant to write was that when I drive clients around in my car, I always use the child-proof lock so they don’t randomly decide to jump out. All this time I thought I was keeping them safe and come to find out first-hand, I’m driving them insane. I was in my girlfriend’s backseat (she works with kids with autism too) while her friend was in the front. We were getting out at Target–the greatest store on Earth– and I’m trying to get out but I can’t. You try playing with the lock a few seven times before you come to a realization that you’re either an idiot or you’ve gone momentarily nuts. They’re outside the car gearing up for a wonderful trip through Target heaven while I finally realize I’m in a child-proofed asylum . It’s a brief glimpse into insanity, I’ll tell you. And this whole time I was thinking those clients were hitting themselves because of some headache they had when come to find out, they just wanted to kill me for locking them in. That’s one thing I learned today.
The Child-Lock-Epiphany hurt my ego even more because of something that happened yesterday. See, I work with a kid who is in middle school who is very high-functioning. I mean he loves My Little Pony but he’s a bright kid and we pretty much share the exact same taste in music. The music thing makes sense considering I haven’t explored any new music since 9th grade and he’s into 90s bands. The My Little Pony thing doesn’t really make any sense at all. I never understood those gay horses and it pained me something awful to buy a My Little Pony gift for my niece for Christmas.
Anyways, we spend at least an hour each time we see each other doing homework. Last week we were doing some science lab on exothermic and endothermic reactions. What they say about your IQ not changing after a certain age is entirely accurate. You do get better at bullshitting your cognitive limits but I sat there, really working hard on this lab assignment, googling shit on my phone, while the kid looked at me like I was some doctor about to tell him how I had the cure for his cancer. I think it’s every young adult’s pipe dream that if they went back to high school they’d never get anything wrong ever again. Just give me another chance: I’m Harvard material. Poor kids. Looking up to us adults like we have the answers. In my defense, I prefaced every single answer with “Now, you’re gonna want to double-check your answer with your teacher on this one because I’m not entirely sure.” Meanwhile, the kid is eating up every thing I say like Bill Nye himself is feeding him the answers. We finish the assignment about 8 hours later and we went for a walk while I wondered if he was going to sell me out to his teacher.
A few days later I’m going through his notebook and WHAT’S THIS I SEE?! It’s the assignment. And apparently the homework was a goddamn QUIZ. I pretty much hand-held him through it and resorted to all sorts of internet searching FOR a 77! I got the kid a C+ and I haven’t put that much effort into something since two hot college neighbors knocked on my door and asked if I could help them open their wine bottle because they couldn’t. A fucking 77. I mean, no way are they going to think he cheated or got help with that type of mediocre payoff. Humiliating. He told me he had more homework and that they moved on to MOON PHASES and lunar eclipses. Moon phases? Hey pal: there’s this force called gravity and it pulls the tides somehow. That’s all I have. Literally, what I just told you, makes zero sense to me. I still try to use the microwave every single time the power goes out in my house. Let’s do English instead.
The last thing I learned this week was more personal. I read books and articles all the time about the differences (or lack of differences) between men and women. Evolution. Gender-types. Culture. Bias. None of these things were on my mind when I was taking a poop after work, though. After a less than sufficient wipe, I stood up and sweet sassy mollasi. Biggest dump I’ve ever taken. Usually you know what kind of damage you’ve caused but this one was a surprise.
And in this little, er–big, moment, I realized a fundamental difference between men and women. In the ten seconds or so that I looked at the poop, I was overcome with a brief feeling of pride. Pride. Like I had really accomplished something. 155 pound Scott did that?
Girls don’t think like this. No way. Please, I mean, I hope no way. Every guy–if they grew up in a time of cellphone cameras–has taken a picture of a poop. Nobody told them to do it. No fathers had sit-down talks with their sons expressing the value and virtue of such a feat. It’s just in our stupid nature. Man-children. Looking at poop with admiration. 6 months ago I got a picture from my sister of a poop. After being completely dumbfounded for a good minute, I read that she was sending it because my 3 year-old nephew wanted to show me his poop. Goddamn barbaric. Never been more proud knowing that he thought of his uncle in such a crucial life-moment.
I’ve since thought about other bathroom accomplishments. Like when you’re in a public restroom and you’re pissing and some other guy comes after you, pisses, and leaves while you continue on. It’s a real ego-bump. I think the ultimate would be having two people finish their pees before you’re done. I think I read about Odysseus doing that in the Illiad.
I don’t know how my revelations are going to help you in your life. But next time a girl tells me that boys only play with trucks because of some sort of gender-bias or cultural influence I’m just going to nod like I agree with her. And then I’m going to pull out my phone, show her a picture of a toilet bowl filled with my poop, watch her disgusted face, and say “See, we’re different.”
I can’t say I’m better at science though. She may have seen the 77 on the quiz.