Last Friday evening I was talking over the fence to my neighbor. We’re both high school teachers and were collectively bemoaning our stressful weeks at school.
My neighbor, let’s call her “Mari” (pronounced Mary), said to me, “Hey, we both need to relax and decompress: how bout my husband and I come by tonight; we’ll bring a joint to smoke and we’ll catch up.”
While in general I’m not a big weed smoker, I said to myself: “Hey, why not? My daughter’s with her dad, and at least it’s legal now.” And an hour later Mari and her husband, here forth known as “Juan,” came knocking at my door.
I’ll admit that my expectations around the evening included melting into a not-a-care-in-the-world relaxed state like Jeff Spicoli. Or, for the younger readers: Seth Rogan. At some point in the evening, perhaps we’d chill to some Snoop Dog. Or add some Pink Floyd to the playlist. We’d definitely order a pizza.
Halfway into the joint, however, I discover I was smoking that strain of weed commonly known as Cannibus Paranoidus. While Mari & Juan chattered on and on about who the hell knows what, the majority of my attention was spent peering between the curtains of the front window, convinced Fred and Susie, my sweet older neighbors, knew exactly what we were up to.
They would judge. And for sure they would call the cops. Because when you’re stoned, your mind reverts to age 17…. And you’re right back in your parents’ basement.
Later, I laughed to myself at what that 911 conversation would sound like: “Uh, officer, we’re going to need some assistance: There are three middle aged parents smoking the marijuana over here, and they’re getting a little out of hand. You’d better bring the Tazer.”
Mari/Juan migrated to the kitchen about the time I start obsessing about how to meet my munchies need. I was deeply conflicted – I really wanted to order a pizza, but I would have to meet the delivery guy at the door, and he might be able to tell we were stoned. And that was when I heard this: “Oooh! You have a juicer,” exclaimed Juan. “Let’s make some juice!”
“Gimme a minute,” I say. “Let me double check that these windows are closed…. Does it smell like we’ve been smoking in here? Do you think the neighbors can smell it?”
Of course, no answer from the Mari/Juan show in the kitchen, for they were busy with this game: “Hey: Say ‘juice’ a couple of times. It’s such a weird word. What rhymes with juice?? …Moose! Goose! Obtuse! Hahahahaha!”
“What do you think, Jen?,” Mari coaxed. “Think of some words that rhyme.”
“Caboose,” I barked, liberally spritzing essential oil about, the closest thing I had to a can of Glade aerosol. “Make sure those curtains are closed, would you! And forget about the juice for a minute: Which one of you wants to help me push this couch in front of the door!?”
And here I get to the morale of the story: When you’re looking for relaxation and equanimity, go to a yoga class, for God’s sake!