How Bad Can It Be?

Well, ski season is here but winter isn't.  Three things are true: 

1. It will snow.
2. There is nothing we can do about it.
3. It's disappointing.

That being said, Johnny and I had our first winter weekend routine, where we ski all day together on Saturday, then Sunday morning I have my 9-12 yoga practice with Ally while he does a ski tour, then we meet on the mountain to wrap up some runs before the lifts close and our legs give out.  Yes, there was pretty much only 2 runs open, and I know some of you  think it is crazy or boring or maybe just uncool to ski Misty Maiden and Village ByPass for 6 hours, which I understand.  And yet, when it does start to snow I want to be in ski shape.  All of these runs add up so when we get our first powder day I want to be the first AND the last person on the lift.  Can someone check their crystal ball and tell me when that might be?

I also concluded, after an evening at home that ended with me slumped on the couch eating gummy bears and popcorn, that my brain and THC simply do not mix.  Now, some of you may find it shocking that I am admitting to such a behavior, so let me preface this by saying: I don't normally do this.  But with all the legalization in the last election, and all the dispensaries here in town, and all the talk about how great it all is, and all the people I know that love it, I found myself thinking, how bad can it BE?  This happens to me about once every 3 or 4 years.  Here is what happened the last two times.

Some time ago Sister and I went to a cousin's wedding in Charlotte, NC.  Sister had "forgotten" a dress, so we marched into a giant mall armed with my dad's credit card to find a appropriate dress for her to wear.  Looking back, it is probably more likely that we slunk into the mall, because we got super stoned before we did it.  Why, you ask?  I don't have that answer.  I would like to say that I was coerced into it, which may be true, because I became so overwhelmed by being in the mall that I ended up parting the clothes on a circular dress rack in a department store, climbing inside and deciding to stay there indefinitely.

You can imagine Sister's reaction.  It involved a small number of curse words that were used repeatedly, in conjunction with a hand and arm that kept parting the clothes and blindly groping and grabbing at me as I shrank to the opposite side of the rack.  It was actually quite pleasant in there - a dream, really, where everything around me was matched in size and color.  Not a bad place to spend some time, soft fabrics, orderly arrangement...   you can see why I found it so delightful, right?  Well, the honeymoon was over when the "Can I help you ladies find something" woman approached us and I allowed myself to be drug out of my Safe Place and thrust into the fluorescent shock of Mainstrean America and Strangers Milling About.

I swore I would never do it again, and then I found myself on a backpack trip with Johnny mulling over the same questions, concluding with, How bad can it be?  We were in Dark Canyon, quite possibly the only humans for many miles in either direction.  The evening ended with us in the dark tent, Johnny drifting off beside me and me processing the sounds of the night.  By the way, don't let him fool you in that picture, that's a hand rolled cigarette but he sure looks convincing!  See how much fun it could be!  Wow, cool AND relaxing.  Why not?!  I will tell you why not: I lay in that black tent with my little white eyes going blink blink and started to put it together that we weren't, in fact, alone in the desert canyon, we were just downstream from a group of girl scouts that were now singing campfire songs (for chrissakes) while I am trying to get some rest after a very tiring day of back packing and exploring.

I mean, really, aren't they tired too?  They're probably young teens (Tweens) who are so happy it is like being on permanent String Cheese Tour, but singing?  At a time like this?  So I kind of prod Johnny out of his dreamy slumber and he gently breaks the news to me that what I am hearing isn't humans, it is frogs.  Spring peepers of some desert variety, peeping and croaking and trying to find love in canyon bottoms so they can live another 17 days.  I know,  It was kind of crushing to realize how wrong I was.  Not just about the sounds I thought I was hearing, but about my capacity to enjoy the effects of smoking.

So when I decided to have a go of it on Saturday night (again, How bad can it be?) I could have drawn upon these adventures and saved myself the calories of the gummy bears and butter-loaded popcorn alone.  But no.  I won't speak for Johnny, but my evening involved: the dawning realization that we were listening to Tori Amos, of all people, a prolonged shower with an almost longer toenail clipping foray, a stint at fitting a puzzle together until I cried out: I can't handle this, it's just too intense!, a vain attempt at starting two books from the library, both of which were "too intense", and then a valiant effort at preventing myself from slipping into sleep at 6:48pm (I failed.  Although I did roust myself long enough to consume some more food).  My conclusion: for me, THC is a neurosis-inducing sedative.  If anyone reading this ever hears me say, "Sure, I mean, how bad can it be?" stop me - please, just stop me. 

Let me just say for the record that I am 100% in favor of marijuana being legal.  I see no reason why it shouldn't.  It's pretty harmless and it makes a lot of people exceptionally happy.  Not so for me.  It makes me feel like a lunatic who is just trying to keep it together. Not my usual M.O.

So that being said, am happy it is ski season, I love our life here and our seasonal routines and it's nice to be at a place in my life where I really don't need to escape from very much.  Do I wish I could spend time in Hawaii every year?  Of course.  Am I going to smoke some Maui Wowee when I get there?  I think not. 

Oh, and I finished my last Pulitzer book and read another, short one and here is my current thought about these books: think not American, but Americana.  That may explain my less than enthusiastic response to many of them.  I will revisit that thought, but for now it is making sense.  One more letter, but a huge difference in perception, right?  I am still committed to my goal.  Next up: 1948's winner, Tales of the South Pacific by James Michener.  Perhaps he was smoking the doobage in the war and got inspired.