![]() We should have had just a little, then waited, then only had more once the initial high wore off. The refrain you’ll hear from a more seasoned stoner is that people like Maureen and me simply ate too much. Famously, the writer Maureen Dowd took a nibble of a pot chocolate and “became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.” Indeed, in Colorado, edibles are responsible for a disproportionate share of emergency-room visits, relative to their sales. Though cannabis is safer than many other drugs, edibles feel scary to some people because of the heightened delusional symptoms they seem to induce. People who can smoke a bowl and go about their day will find that when they eat a weed candy (or two-is it even working?), they feel like their hands are about to detach from their body. This seems to be a common dichotomy when it comes to eating, rather than smoking, cannabis. Ever since, despite my live-and-let-live attitude toward most things, I’ve considered edible pot to be slightly suspect, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. We returned to our room, where I lay motionless on the bed and clung to its edges so I didn’t fall up. The waiter placed it on the table, flashed us an impish grin, and lit it on fire. The meat reminded me that we are all for slaughter. The tossed salad conjured dead leaves, reminding me that everything is picked, pruned, and fallen. I decided to proceed with the dinner anyway-which quickly turned out to be a huge mistake. What if he was an imposter, and I had come to this strange restaurant in this strange town with a strange man? ![]() I looked at my boyfriend and realized that I could no longer be sure he was him. Everything seemed like it had been rotated 45 degrees, but in meaning, rather than appearance. It tasted like your standard Nestlé Toll House, maybe a little grassier, and I swallowed it without asking key questions such as, “Where did you get this?” or “Why are we doing this?”Īs soon as we pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, Earth and its atmosphere began to whisper to me that all was not right. I had smoked joints before, and I wanted to seem game, so I eagerly ate my half. My boyfriend brought out something special for the occasion: a cookie infused with marijuana butter. ![]() I wore my grad-school finest, which is to say I looked like the assistant accounting manager at a medium-size business. After an afternoon of hiking among the orange trees, we returned to our motel room to get ready for our fancy dinner, the kind of white-tablecloth place we could never afford to eat at normally. He recommended Ojai, a New Agey town a couple of hours’ north, because some famous person he liked had lived there. A decade ago, I finished my first year of grad school in Los Angeles, and my boyfriend and I went on a short getaway to celebrate.
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