Oh, no no no. I was fooled by the promise of a tale that starts out, refreshingly, all female third-life crisis, as Kristen Bell’s journalist is driven to escape her work and New York City and go home to suburban Connecticut. (She brings the cat with her — it’s that serious.) On the verge of 30, she “need[s] some time out of [her] life,” and finds it by taking up her high-school summer job as a lifeguard in an apartment complex pool and engaging in lots of nice refreshing distracting sexytime… with a 16-year-old boy. Not cool, movie — not cool. Especially when there’s nothing the movie wants to say — some unconvincing whining about how hard it is to grow up, apparently — that couldn’t have been achieved if the kid had been 18, and double-especially once it turns out that writer-director Liz W. Garcia has constructed her tale so that there will be no negative consequences whatsoever for Bell’s abominable behavior. So not cool.