I Brought Pot on a Girls’ Trip With My 60-Year-Old Friends—Here’s What Happened
My friends and I came of age in the '60s, but on our annual weekend getaway we discovered we weren't quite cannabis connoisseurs.
It was more a siren call than a store—provocative pink exterior and bold, black-paned windows that revealed a seduction of accessories within. The shiny new cannabis store on the main drag of Stratford, Ontario, had the ultrachic Phase Two look of Canada’s marijuana legalization journey. Each time I walked by, I felt like I was missing out on something. It was only a matter of time before I found myself deep inside studying pre-rolled joint options.
“Nothing too strong,” I began with the courteous saleswoman. “We don’t like to feel anxious.” By we I meant the four women I’d come to town with on our annual weekend getaway. I wasn’t sure how my purchase would go down: most of us were in our 60s, but we also came of age in the ’60s. Still, we found the results of the legal marijuana being sold across Canada unpredictable and best avoided. Wine was our reliable go-to—until this pretty store took hold of me and would not let go.
“I’d like the equivalent of two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc,” I said to the saleswoman. The lively man next to me was re-ordering shatter, an ultra-strong cannabis concentrate—“It changed my life!”
I asked him the THC level of his purchase to avoid something similar. “Fifty,” he said. I left with a modest 17.5 per cent THC pre-roll called Jack Haze.
I timed my surprise reveal for the post-dinner lull, as my friends and I gathered in our host’s welcoming kitchen. I’d barely explained Jack Haze’s gentle merits before said host grabbed it from my hand and toked like she had to get in one last drag before the fuzz busted us. Within minutes—we’d all eagerly partaken except for a lone abstainer—the Haze part of Jack became evident in the form of absolute immobility. It felt as if we were pinned under a fine but powerful mesh. But under that mesh, sprawled on a circle of couches and chairs in the living room, we were as jacked up as drivers at the Indy 500.
Three hours later—or maybe 15 minutes, time had lost its purpose—I attempted to get a glass of water from the kitchen. On my knees. “Seriously, I can’t stand up,” I said to my friends, who did not try something similar.
“Here’s your water, Cathrin,” said the abstainer, whom we had begun calling The Mother (let’s not examine that). “Now I am going to bed. And I don’t want to be disturbed.” As she said this, she rolled up a magazine and slapped it in her hand. Which was, like, super scary. When we did eventually walk, we all crowded into The Mother’s bedroom, afraid to be alone in our own rooms. “Get to bed, Little Stoned Women,” she said, and as soon as we did, we fell asleep with the serenity of the innocent.
The next morning, I returned to the store to helpfully school the staff on selling marijuana to 60-year-olds.
“First of all,” the man at the counter said, after asking me a series of questions including how much THC was in our system on any given week (none). “Comparing wine and marijuana is a false equivalency.”
“Good note,” I said.
“Second, your joint…” (I had brought along Jack Haze—three-quarters of it remained—as evidence) “…is 17.5 per cent THC pre-roll. Given your abstinence and inclinations, what you want next time is a six per cent CBD-THC hybrid roll.”
Hybrid roll, I thought as I walked slowly home, jointless. That’s what I’m missing.
Next, if you’ve ever had to get a colonoscopy, you’ll relate to this woman’s hilarious story.