An Exhale
There is a moment that happens at parties which I absolutely dread. Not with fear or despair; I mean the kind of dread that mixes frustration with deep annoyance. Loathing makes me nervous, being nervous makes me self-conscious that I am nervous, and my self-consciousness (what could be more uncool?) deepens the dread the next time it happens.
Those who know me may know that the moment I am talking about is the one in which a fellow party-goer suggests that we smoke pot. There is maybe nothing else that makes me feel so completely alienated, unnecessary, and maybe even unwanted, like being out with a couple on their anniversary, but on a grander scale. It is like how it would feel if everyone in the room suddenly, quite by choice, began speaking another language. At once, I am awkward and useless. The scene has switched, gone where I can’t follow. (I suppose it is won’t, not can’t, but that isn’t how it registers emotionally.)
What I have just written seems a little dramatic, even to me, but that is only because nearly 15 years of dealing with pot smokers and navigating social situations has softened my rhetoric and dulled the visceral reaction a bit. I can play it cooler now, but it is acting. My true reaction to pot smoking–to drug use, period–is something like disgust, if disgust could raise a lump in your throat and make you feel vaguely like calling your parents.
With the passing of each of these 15 years, I suppose it has become more and more remarkable that I have never tried pot. My peers and I, after all, were raised by boomers, many of whom still use drugs recreationally. The adults we grew with (my own family being an exception) assumed that we would “experiment” with it, and so, most of us did. It’s true that in college I did become a somewhat enthusiastic reveler, very comfortable, say, organizing a drinking game. As a result, new friends often casually assume that I smoke pot. That moment in a budding friendship, when this assumption is revealed, is one I dislike also, because it insults me a way I find difficult to hide. My convictions are mysterious and passionate, and once public, I have to explain them and even defend them. I have to be prepared to have them dismissed, or worse, to be condescended to.
Even now, I feel a little hesitant about clicking the “publish” button. But I will. Maybe then I can exhale.
) There was a time when I wondered whether I should be flattered to be considered so “normal”, but thankfully age has made me more sure of myself!
As you know, Mom and I were anomalies in our generation over the same thing. Smoking weed makes people silly and boring.
I’m also pretty sure a good friend of mine is dead on account of years of regular use. Hmmmm, makes you stupid, might kill you, AND you get to deal with organized crime to get it.
Who could say no to that combination?