Why I Don't Smoke The Weed

If I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times - I have never partaken in the drugs, any of them, not even the marijuana, which British Columbia (if not the whole of Canada) is known for. BC Bud? Yeah, that's a real noteworthy thing over here, apparently. Colour me surprised! Although it does kind of make sense because everyone and their grandmother loves to indulge in the green around these parts.

Now, the reason for my abstaining isn't because I am a stuck up bitch who thinks she's better than everyone else and doesn't want to stoop to the level of those people who are so clearly beneath me. Actually, yes, someone did once accuse me of that, even though I don't think I am better than anyone else, except those I am obviously better than. Just kidding. I am the Queen of ill-timed jokes. I wish there was a jokey font. I guess comic sans might be.

Anyhow, the truth is, I was afraid to try drugs. When I was eleven, my older brother got into some bad stuff. I won't share details, because it isn't really anyone's business but his own. The details don't matter, anyway, what did matter is that I loved him. I saw the way his life was heading and, while there were more bad decisions than buying ciggies, getting drunk, and smoking a spliff, that's where it seemed to begin, at least that's how I saw it in my preteen mind. So, I decided I didn't want to go down the path he went, I didn't want to be removed from my home, or put into foster care, or go to juvenile detention.

Sure, as I grew older, I realized his was the worst case scenario. Well, at least one of them, there was always death, which scared me more. People find it surprising I didn't succumb to peer pressure in high school. Yes, it was offered, and yeah, I spent many a night with drunk and stoned kids. From alcohol swiped from parents liquor cabinets to marijuana and from LSD to cocaine and ecstasy, I was around it all. It wasn't as if I wasn't subjected to it. I was, but it never interested me, and honestly I didn't WANT to do it. There was plenty of remarks, a copious amount of assumptions, and a fair amount of peer pressure, never really from my good friends, but I was a determined little girl.

And then I reached my twenties and, despite the rough times and sad times and trying to find myself times, I always figured it was a silly time to start. It was as if I missed the getting high boat. It seemed weird for me to suddenly give it a try after over two decades of living.

So why do I not indulge now?

Because I don't need it. I am weird enough on my own. This world constantly wows me. And to be perfectly honest, I have an odd tendency to sound like I'm stoned without actually being under the influence. "Look at the sky, it's amaaaaaaazing. Can you believe it? It's just breath taking." Insert far out smile here. No, really. Do you remember the double rainbow video? How that guy lost his mind over the double rainbow? Well, that's pretty much me whenever I see something semi-amazing in nature.

For example, tonight I cut open a tomato, which seems like a fairly uninspiring task. Except, I was in awe, because the seeds inside had sprouted. This literally had me grinning from ear-to-ear. I actually sought out the Sidekick to show him. He wasn't as amazed by it, though. Still, it made my night. And that is why I don't smoke the weed now. Because my world is pretty magnificent without it.

And don't go thinking I am one of those people who tell others not to burn one down. Heavens no, partake, indulge, light one up. It just isn't for me, it never has been and, here's the thing, it never will be. Never. Oh, also, please don't call me straight-edge, while that is an accurate label for what I am, I have always hated the term. Mostly because it makes me sound like a scenester kid, which isn't the case. I am too old to be a scenester or hipster, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Now, where'd I put my cardigan and glasses?

The Ones We Love

Lately, I've ben thinking about how we treat the ones we love. The elusive we.

Or more accurately, how we mistreat the ones we love.

We don't mean to. It just happens. Unintentional.

No excuses.

It's the ones closest to us, the ones we love the most, that suffer our wrath. Our bad days turn into their bad days. They take the brunt of our unhappiness and anger. Become acquainted with our temper tantrums and feelings of displacement. When we wake up on the wrong side of the bed, they roll out next to us, stand awkwardly in the kitchen and try to figure out what to do or say. Nothing. They can't do or say anything.

The ones we love, they witness this. They get the first dose of crotchetiness.

And at the end of a long, unsatisfying day, our loved ones are there. Standing in the kitchen again, taking our cold shoulders and sharp tones. Trying to figure out if they can make something special for dinner to turn it all around. No amount of home cooking can fix this. There is no confectionary bandage.

It sucks.

I wish I had a more eloquent way of phrasing it, but I don't.

It just sucks how harsh we can be to the ones who love us the most. Because we start to wonder. How the hell can they even love us? That's only if the pattern gets out of control.

Most of us manage to hold ourselves together for strangers. After all, it isn't polite to snap, crack and pop people we don't know. We put our feelings aside for the faceless nobodies who walk through our doors and into our live. Because it isn't acceptable to tell them to 'leave you alone' or ask them 'why are you following me around?'.

Who wrote this ridiculous rule? Since when is it okay to vent and moan and bitch and whine to our loved ones? We say it's because they love us. They will forgive these behaviours, but if we really loved them, wouldn't we want to shield them from this sort of hurt?

It doesn't matter whether we mean to do it or not. We still do.

I'm human. I make mistakes. I snap with snark and roll my eyes. I let the frustrations of my job, my upset tummy, and my lack of patience get the better of me. Not all the time, but enough to take notice of. Enough for me to be not impressed with it.

It happens back to me. A grumpy boyfriend, annoyed co-worker, and frustrated sibling. I might make excuses for being snapped and scowled at, but it doesn't make it hurt less. It's one of those weird idiosyncrasies of life.

And good for you if you're not one of us. Good for you if you've never taken your bad day home, or said something out of frustration you know you shouldn't. Congratulations if you never got short with your children or gave your spouse your back because you're so overwhelmed with debt and disappointments.

You're better than I.

A lot of it comes down to not wanting others to think we are bad people. We don't want them to think us mean or harsh, or blunt or temperamental. But as someone rushes around shutting windows and whispering, what will the neighbours think? I'm standing there wondering, what about what I think?

Damage is done.

Maybe it's time to start giving our loved ones the same consideration and understanding as we give strangers. Or maybe not.