Please don’t feed the sharks

One of the first clues that a relationship may not be particularly healthy is when your friends nickname him “Psycho.” We nicknamed everyone….Turtle, Manwhore, Polish Pete, Tony Robbins, Wonderschlong, etc.

Psycho J was a former military guy, so he gave new meaning to obsessive-compulsive disorder. He was a total clean freak, and only wore white colored clothes. Since I only wore black, we looked a bit like the yin-yang symbol when we went out.  Eating healthy was also a priority for him, as he wouldn’t eat anything deemed unhealthy, a vast list which included everything that didn’t have soy in it. He also had a need to be constantly doing something, usually outdoorsy. Now, I do not consider myself particularly high-maintenance, but “outdoorsy” is not in the top 387 words used to describe me. I wouldn’t mind the outdoors if I could be covered in a climate-controlled bubble to keep bugs out, but no one has invented this yet.

When I first met Psycho J, there was instant heat. I was ecstatic to think that my first online dating experience was actually hot! He was tall! With very kissable pouty lips.  I’d be back on my game in no time.

For our second date, Psycho J insisted on going out on his jetski. This would probably be fun to many people, but unfortunately, I cannot swim. I cannot even float. I’m pretty sure if you dumped my body in the Dead Sea, I would sink like I was wearing cement shoes. Nonetheless, Psycho J convinced me that being a Navy guy, he would make sure I did not drown. I was tired of living a boring life, and maybe even tired of living, so I figured if I was murdered at least I could give back by feeding sharks. I’m charitable that way.

It started out to be quite thrilling.  I was oblivious to everything around me and for a change, forgetting about my contentious divorce proceedings. My enthusiasm started to wane as the shore slowly disappeared from view. The waves started reaching “The Perfect Storm” proportions. Every 15 seconds we would get airborne, and I slammed down into his back. My crotch wasn’t enjoying itself either on the hard seat. This cured any drunken urge to ride a mechanical bull in a honky tonk–not that I would be caught drunk in the South, but one never knows where one will encounter a mechanical bull, and I like a challenge. This continued for an eternity it seemed, as our quick 20 minute trip out to a nearby island quickly became 45 minutes to the middle of nowhere with no sign of land. I began to panic and think I would die at sea. Psycho J assured me we were just slightly off course.

More waves, more slamming my boobs, and I was feeling sunburnt and nauseous. Dates do not get any better than this.

AN HOUR LATER, we finally approached land. I was so happy to see a beach, until I discovered that not only were we way off course, we had landed in another state. Needless to say, Psycho J’s non-existent navigation skills eliminated him from my short list of potential partners on “The Amazing Race.” And the only way back was the same way we just came. After a very brief rest, we had to head back before sunset. By now, I was pretty sure my ribs were bruised. I considered just ending it all and jumping off. It had to be less painful than having a broken rib puncture my lung at sea. I was pretty sure he couldn’t perform surgery on me with a Swiss army knife on the back of a jetski.

But I survived, and later admitted that I was glad I pushed myself out of my comfort zone. I am not glad that my one-sided sunburn caused a sun spot to pop out on my cheek, and that little fucker haunts me to this day. Granted, it was a risky move for someone who couldn’t swim to trust a virtual stranger, but my instincts weren’t screaming danger, and I made sure my friends knew what information to give the police in case I didn’t return. I also hid my driver’s license in my bra so my lifeless body would be identified when some oyster boats found it. I’m not stupid.

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