Hypothetically

I'm not gonna lie. . . my friends tried pot in High School. I didn't, but they did. Especially Gabi. Oh my gosh can that girl smoke.

Ok, just kidding. Gabi is actually my one friend who has no idea what being anything other than mildly tipsy off some lite beer feels like. (WHICH IS A GOOD THING KIDS. Stay in school.)

But I never did, Mom.

Not once.

Ever.

But, hypothetically - if I haaaaad tried it, I maaaaay have done it in a really safe place, where I was sure to not go anywhere or do anything stupid.

Except that one time I went to school stoned. Hypothetically. And it was college so, pretty much I was just leveling out with everyone else. Ok, fine. And High School, but it was just Sr. Welch's class, and he couldn't tell - I was usually inappropriately talkative in that class. Maybe we could have done without my rendition of Power of Love by Celine Dion, but still. It wasn't that noticeable. Hypothetically.

(Oh my gosh I used to love that Celine Dion song. Mostly when I was 15, and mostly I would call up my best friend Michellen (Michelle and Ellen smashed together. Her parents had water beds. That may not seem like a good explanation, but it was enough for me.) and when her answering machine would pick up I'd blast the radio and sing along as loud as I could, and with as much heartache and emotion a 15-year-old, six-foot-one, a hundred-and-two pound, head-gear-wearing girl can muster, until my voice started to crack and inevitably I would break into a flood of Dion-smeared tears, and the message would end with me sobbing, and shakily saying, "Ok. . . call me back when you get home from dinner.") (For the record, she'd do the same to me. We weren't in love, we were just showing each other how we felt about our boyfriends, through the brilliance of a woman who married her pseudo-dad. Naturally.)

And hypothetically once, if I had tried smoking pot, I may have buried some of it behind the drama building because I knew myself well enough to know I can handle like one hit, before I lose my shit, and as I told my friend, "This will grow. We will come back in ten years and these seeds we've planted will be big, and beautiful and like ivy climbing all over this building. And maybe even a little by the biology building. And no one will ever know what it is. But we can take it, and weave things from it."

Hypothetically, I was not a very good stoned person.

And I'm talking like if I had done it, I did it all the time. I didn't. I can count on my two hands the amount of time I might have done it. Because I liked doing well in school. And, because I was pretty sure I was moments away from being arrested if I even looked at the stuff. (I sang Celine Dion to my best friend - what? You expect me to be more badass than that?? Please. I can't even back out of my driveway without my seat belt on.)

I only bring this all up because it's 4/20, and the radio is all about Cypress Hill and Cheech and Chong, and Dazed and Confused, and it reminded me of High School - where I realized someone with braces and sparkly glasses couldn't pull off dreads, and a hemp tank top.

Though it would be years before I gave up my dream for just-under-the-boob length dreads.

Hypothetically.