I have never smoked pot. I have never taken a non-prescribed drug, though I have at times richly, nearly unethically, enjoyed my prescribed drugs.  I’ve also only been drunk twice, one time because they didn’t bring the bread fast enough at this restaurant that also made fantastic lemon drops, and another because I mixed pills and wine cuz I was super sad and trying to be fun anyway. I spent the most remembered portion of that night sitting on the sidewalk outside the wine bar, leaning against the bricks, as my sweet friends took turns coming out to keep me company. In retrospect I’m glad for it, I dug up whole new pockets of tenderness and brilliance I hadn’t seen yet in those friends.

I didn’t do pot when it was illegal because I didn’t like what it did to people. I didn’t like what alcohol did to people either. Made them stupid, took their wit and powers of observation away. Made them careless, pointless, untrustworthy. And of course, reminded me of unfortunate times from when I was a kid.

Also asthma.

I’m going to do pot today. I’m doing it because now that it is legal it is monitored by the FDA, which history has taught me to respect, and because I now believe there is some science going on behind the scenes. Also, apparently because I’m a patriot because the sales tax (remembering Oregon does not HAVE a sales tax) on marijuana products is 25% of the purchase. Go Beavs!

The science is what comforts me. They can chop up the chemicals in the marijuana plant now, separate them and even sew them together in different ways. And it turns out only part of those chemicals make you stupid. The other part eases muscle pain and relaxes tension. I bought a tiny vial of pot-oil called “AC DC” because it had the highest ratio of muscles relaxant to stupid-maker I could buy.

The shop I bought it in was an even greater comfort. It is one of literal hundreds here and I chose it randomly. I never liked head-shops, all grimy and no-eye-contact. Even if it was the only place in central Oregon to buy a decent tie-dye in 1986, it wasn’t worth it to feel so shady and low.

But this place! A cross between a jewelry store and a Trader-Joes. The staff all wore uniforms, were clean cut and young, and so damn happy! EVERYONE was happy. Their was a general air of back-slapping, “We did it! The dream is real! THE DREAM IS NOW!!” between the people who moved between the aisles.

I told a darling pony-tailed girl what I wanted.

“I don’t know how pot works. But I don’t want to smoke it and I don’t want to be paranoid or have a panic attack.” I was asking for the relief from living that the drug supposedly gave, with none of the greasy memories I tied to it still attached.

The things I bought were a literal century apart from anything I’d known. I have my own vape now. It’s a pot vape. Ha! It’s charging in the USB drive of this very computer right now. USB drive! My joint has a tiny computer in it! I then plug the AC DC vial, which is remarkable similar to the antique vials of hypodermic morphine and strychnine I keep in my medical collection, and take a “pull.”

“Do I have to hold it in, like in the movies?”

“No…it’s…no just breathe normal.”

Oregon law now also allows you to have one “edible” per day! At that store they had taffy, suckers, and honey sticks. I took a honey stick that the girl told me an older lady takes for joint aches.

“Can I still care for my children with the pot honey in me?” I asked her. Ha. I used to be a terrific fan of Winnie the Pooh and am so used to those two words being inverted.

“Yes. It should just loosen your muscles and relax you a bit. Absolutely.”

And of course, I’m terrified. I can consume enough Klonopin, which makes Xanex look like Tylenol PM to sedate a giraffe, thanks to a slow and painstakingly built tolerance. But this…marijuana. It’s drugs. Bad bad bad. Bad people, slimy, jobless, hopeless, trying to blot out the world. Marijuana is a lifestyle and a terrible scary one, my brain wrang it’s nodules in worry.

My husband is smarter than I am and he did lots of pot in his wild years and he framed it for me many times. “How is it different or less civilized than having a glass of wine in the evening? Or a nice whiskey on the rocks? The only difference between pot and alcohol is that no one ever gets HIGH and goes home to beat their wife.”

4 hours later—

He literally held my hand as I “pulled” the mist into my lungs. It bit like smoke would, tasted like beef jerky, and made me cough like in the movies. He was chuckling at the percentages on the box, “You can’t possibly get high off this.”

I don’t know if I am. LE just came in to bargain for chocolate, and I was able to recount the treats she’d already had today with mild clarity, so I must be fairly ok. I would like to lie down, maybe in the hammock. Kinda sleepy. Also, swear to god, I’m hungry. I always thought it would be the kind of hungry where your mouth wants something, flavor, texture, thrill. But my stomach is hungry. I need a sandwich. (Full disclosure, I said that sentence outloud and it was, “I sleed a snandwich.”)

7 hours later—

All gone, out of my system. Only lasted about 40 minutes I’d say. Conclusion? Meh.THAT’S what the fuss is over? THAT’s what people give their life over to? Just… foggy and tired. Slurry and a tad stupid. I can do that all on my own. Even with a USB drive and state of the art, perky customer service…I’m just not a Potter. Pot taker. PARtaker.

No. Back to the faithfully prescribed horse tranquilizers for ol Therese. Now, call me when opiates are legal, we’ll try this experiment again.