And that Kids is How I met J.

Today I want to talk about Metamorphosis! Yes, that magical process where a caterpillar decides that life in "larva" mode is no longer enough and, decides that life isn't cutting it anymore after a period of seclusion known as pupation, it turns into a dazzling butterfly.

Basically, it's like the complete opposite of a one-night stand with a girl you just met at a bar. You know, when you wake up and see the aftermath scattered on the floor: high heels, spandex, fake eyelashes, hair extensions, and breast fillers. It's a metamorphosis, but in reverse. You went to bed with a goddess and woke up with a science project!

This weekend, I had the chance to witness this phenomenon of nature with my own eyes. Im still taking about Metamorphosis. And while writing about this new experience, I realized that it's been almost a year since I started documenting my adventures with J. And come to think of it, I never told you how we met. But, before diving headfirst into that story, I need to provide a little bit of context because context is everything.

My dad is dead. Yeah, I know what you're thinking: "What a cheerful way to start a comedy story!" But wait, it gets better. Not in a Jesus Christ "and on the third day he rose again" way, but definitely in a comedic tone. My dad passed away when I was just 3 years old, so in that sense to me, he's a bit like Jesus—I've been told he existed, but I never got to see him with my own eyes.

Anyway, context: last summer, I decided to take a vacation in Spain. And while I was there, I figured I'd visit my dad's grave. Because nothing says vacation like paella, beaches, and... cemeteries. When I got to the cemetery, I noticed that all the graves had flowers... even the neighbor's dog's grave had a bouquet, except for my dad's. So, in a fit of filial piety and a touch of guilt, I decided to fix it.

I Googled the nearest florist because, these days, you even need the internet to be a good son. I got to the florist and realized I had no idea what kind of flowers to buy. Daisies? Roses? What kind of flower do you buy to someone you never’ve met, and is colder than an Eskimo’s Tinder profile. I such an existential dilemma I was when I looked up from my phone and saw her for the very first time. The sunset light caressed her long, silky hair like one of those shampoo commercials that make you question if you're using the right product.

And this is why the context matters: the day I met J was also a sunny day, and most importantly, my hair was having a meltdown. My shampoo had apparently signed a pact with gravity, leaving my hair flatter than a pancake after a breakfast buffet. Meanwhile, my T-shirt looked like it was hosting a dandruff snowstorm despite being mid-October. It was dusted with so much dandruff it looked like a snow globe in a heatwave.

Remember how I had just returned from my whirlwind trip to Spain. So, out of the blue, a good friend texted me to say she was coming over with a friend who was single and looking to mingle. She gave me the rundown of her friend's interests, hobbies, aspirations, and whatnot. But all my brain processed was, "Blah blah blah, she has a pulse. Blah blah blah, big boobs." As you can see dear reader, I have my priorities straight.

Where was I? Yes, having just returned from Spain, my fridge was emptier than porn actor's sack after a 24 hour shift. I opened it to find a trio of cockroaches who, in the absence of food, had formed a jazz band to make ends meet. Desperate to stock up, I dashed to Whole Foods to get provisions for me, the girls, and my new musical roommates. But in my rush, I forgot to buy shampoo.

So there I was, in the parking lot, plowing away snowflakes off my shoulders, when I felt a tap on my back. It startled me out of my grooming disaster. Turned out, the tap belonged to a gorgeous petite redhead, that happened to be a HAIRSTYLIST. How do I know, you ask? She told me. When I saw her for the very first time, I felt like Princess Elsa, Frozen,— and wishing she wouldn’t notice the dandruff snowstorm. Panicking I was while the voices in my head were humming "Let it go, let it go". And that Kids is How I met J.

Right, metamorphosis. Metamorphosis, huh? Well, J bought us tickets to the South Coast Botanic Garden to be surrounded by hundreds of tropical butterflies.

Exhibit A

But the real metamorphosis happened the night before. She sauntered over to me like Marilyn Monroe had taken over her body, and in a smooth voice dripping with seduction and as smooth as a buttered croissant, she leaned in and purred, 'Do you want to have... a snack?'

One second, she's looking at me like I'm a five-course meal, the next she's rummaging through the pantry like a raccoon in a dumpster. I’ve seen mood swings, but this was a trampoline act at Cirque du Soleil. One moment she's a vixen straight out of a James Bond movie, the next she's got the munchies like a college student at 2 a.m. She transformed faster than Clark Kent in a phone booth. Forget Tesla’s 0-100 km/h in 2.1 seconds; she went from 'horny' to 'hungry' in 0.1 seconds. Take that, Elon Musk! It's like she went from Marilyn Monroe to Cookie Monster in the blink of an eye. Guess we all know who the real snack was that night!"

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