I am not completely unfamiliar with marijuana. I grew up in the seventies and eighties, and I did (do?) have a fairly well-defined wild streak. Lucky for me during high school and college, my more exploratory tendencies were nicely tempered with a large dose of black and white rule abidement and a healthy dash of choir nerdiness. And I’m a chicken. I was in no way a stoner, but I did inhale occasionally. Truly pot was not a favorite, because frankly I can reach a comforting level of tiredness and crave junk food on my own, without having to participate in any illicit activities.
I have been to Colorado a few times since recreational marijuana was legalized. I have driven by many pot emporiums, with their vaguely amusing green cross logos announcing their presence to all. I never felt the need to go inside. Until this trip…
We’re driving by store after store, and I looked at Hubs and said “I want some.” We have been married almost thirty years, so I seldom shock him, but I think this did. He pulled in the parking lot of the next pot shop and turned off the car. “No, I can’t do it, let’s just go.” He shook his head and started up the car. We drove a mile or so, and I said “Yes, I want to go. Stop at the next one.” This green crossed strip mall looked promising: a dispensary, a head shop next door (yes, they still call it that) and a bakery. Someone is using their noggin! I opened the car door, then shut it quickly. “No, I can’t!” Hubs asked “What are you, high? It’s legal, you want some, go!”
We walked into the waiting area/Checkpoint Charlie and saw the usual Boulder C.U. stoner types, along with a hipster couple and a man about our age. We waited our turn, then were asked for I.D.’s. Hubs had just renewed his, and had the expired license and his temporary paper license. This was not enough for him to gain entrance; he had to stay in the waiting room. I think he firmly believed the wife he has known and loved for all these many years would wuss out on going in alone. Wrong! I giddily sailed by him, propelled by the fantastic emotion of doing something illegal, legally…
Hubs decided it was too good of a moment to not share, so he sent a picture of the “menu” to our younger, wilder son T. T immediately called with concern. “Oh my God, you sent Mom in alone? Does she know the pot is way stronger than when you guys were young? She needs to get the mellow kind with low THC, and only take like one hit!” Ah the wonderful circle of life. He is now concerned about me and my life choices. I of course will not ponder how he seems to have so much pot knowledge; I am sure he read up on it somewhere.
“What can I do for you today?” asked the kindly youngster as I gaped open-mouthed around my college friend Susan’s dream room. Edible goods, candy things and buds of all shapes and sizes. I told sonny that I hadn’t smoked pot since before he was born, and I would like the smallest amount of whatever was the weakest. He picked a cute little bud, from the “lavender” family (all the types have different names) and put it in a plastic medicine bottle. $17 cash and I was on my way… to the head shop next door, where I bought a cute little glass pipe with hand painted swirlies.
As we were driving, I felt a guilty blush creeping up my cheeks as I worried where to put the pot. In my purse? “It’s so weird, we could get pulled over right now, I have pot and I wouldn’t get in trouble, yet I still feel like The Fugitive.” I anxiously tucked and checked my little lavender for the next half hour until we reached our destination.
After unpacking I was compelled, as with any new toy, to take my little bud out and look at it. It smelled like I remembered, that distinct oily, burning leaf odor. I one finger poked it with the hesitancy normally reserved for investigating if that thing on the sidewalk is actually dead. I surreptitiously rolled it over and sniffed, then popped it back inside its cubby.
After dinner was my designated time. I carefully packed just a tiny pinch into my cute little pipe, lit up and breathed in. My re-virginized since probably 1987 lungs were not having it. I coughed, I wheezed, my eyes watered, and I had to change clothes. (If the changing clothes part is confusing to you, go ask any fifty-something mom what this means.) I waited five minutes, ten, fifteen, felt nothing, maybe a bit tired? Okay, one more small hit, this time with less forceful enthusiasm. I sat and watched some T.V. and decided pot just really makes me tired. I was going to bed. “Oh, God, where am I going to put the pot?” I asked a slightly amused Hubs. “Anywhere you want, it’s legal, you know. You can just leave it out.”
“I can’t leave it out, someone could steal it!” “No one wants to steal your pinch of baby pot. Go to bed.” “I can’t, I need to hide it somewhere. I need a ziplock or something because maybe we’ll travel somewhere, and if I put the pot in my purse or the suitcase, it might smell and then the drug sniffing dogs will mark my stuff!” “You’re high, you know,” replied Hubs. “I know!” I giggled as I went to get ready for bed. Have you ever noticed how really fantastic brushing your teeth feels?
I had a great night’s sleep, completely uninterrupted, until I awoke with a jolt to realize, SHIT! I’m supposedly job hunting. I quickly grab my phone and google how long pot can be detected in my system. Whew, safe. Of course I confess everything in my blog, so I guess my policy is I wouldn’t want to work for someone who would not hire me because I had a couple of hits of legal marijuana while on vacation. I can’t wait to see how this all plays out.
Anyway, a couple of nights later I attempted one last hit, not because I really wanted it, but because I could, and it’s legal! After a five blister hike, it just tucked me right into bed.
So, in conclusion, my feelings about pot have not changed, it’s still meh. I don’t think it should be illegal, especially for medicinal purposes. Yes, I realize this blog may possibly hurt my job prospects, but I don’t care. My wild streak? It’s still kickin’.