My 18-year-old son wants to connect me with a drug dealer.
Owen is in his first year of college in Portland, Oregon, where medicinal marijuana is legal. Well aware of my chronic headaches, he's decided weed is just the thing.
I'm touched that he's been thinking about me. But. "I can't smoke weed, Owen," I tell him. "I don't know how to smoke. I've never smoked anything." It's true. Weird, I know, but true. I grew up in a family of cigarette smokers so I rebelled in adolescence by not smoking.
"It's ok, Mom. You don't need to smoke. You can use an inhaler. I've thought it all through."
I remind him that pot remains illegal in Louisiana and that if he brought it home from Portland, he'd be transporting illegal drugs across state lines. And that's bad, if I remember my cop shows correctly.
Deep sigh. "Mom. It's not called pot any more. It's weed. Only people who say 'groovy' call it pot."
I'm thinking that if I don't know what to call it, I probably shouldn't smoke it. Or inhale it. But Owen's excited. He explains that he's talked to Neal and that Neal is absolutely psyched to procure weed for me. Neal is a high school buddy of Owen's and a great favorite of mine. Also, as it happens, a pothead. Excuse me, umm, weedhead?
Once again, I'm touched and a little teary. I mean, my son and his friends have plotted drug running on my behalf.
And I am tempted. I have daily headaches, and according to my research, marijuana would probably offer some relief. And even if it didn't, maybe I'd become more, you know, Dude-like. People do not associate me with the Dude. The words "mellow" or "laid-back" or "chilled" do not, somehow, feature very strongly in descriptions of me. Dudedom would be lovely, I think.
But I can't do it. I can't even drive by a police car without feeling furtive and guilty, though I've never had as much as a speeding ticket, let alone any more serious brush with the Law.
So, Dudedom must wait. I am, however, thinking about a trip to Amsterdam for my 50th birthday.
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