Why I no longer partake of cannabis

Like many people, I’ve enjoyed some cannabis experiences. And not. These days, it’s mainly an occasional gummy tilted more toward CBD.

I grew one plant a couple of years ago, did all the right stuff, trimmed and seasoned it and burped the jar, and now it sits in my garage, lonely, forlorn, reminding me often of how its level has not lowered in over a year.

We were invited to a house party a few years ago, after pot became legal in Oregon. Hosts were retired professionals with U.S. foreign service. And admitted users. We shared a motley buffet while a Jerry Garcia-looking guy played guitar. Kathy offered to get us dessert. She came back with a lacy bit of candy, taken from a tray that said Edibles. Small type said experienced users could take one, less experienced a half.

I popped the damned thing. It was tiny. Like semi-dried caramel.

Then I engaged a conversation with a guy I know and respect. About 15 minutes in, it hit me. Lord, was I whacked. I’m thinking, this guy surely notices, and I hope I’m maintaining and not betraying my idiocy (any more than usual, that is).

I gave Kathy the car keys. I could barely walk.

Next day, I asked this same guy if he had noticed anything. No, he said, enjoyed the conversation.

Stupid.