I DID NOT INHALE

My daughters were baffled when they got wind of the fact that I was not even an every-now-and-then doobie partaker.

Bewildered that I never snorted anything.

Flabbergasted that my high school years were not loaded with alcohol-infused partying. 

And I think a bit disappointed.

They are still not convinced! 

According to them…“Are you kidding me?! You were around in the 60’s! What about the 70’s?AND 80’s? Weren’t you invited to parties? And you were in showbiz! Cast gatherings? Drama? What the heck were you doing??

HIGH school

To be honest, aside from Mogen David wine on Jewish holidays and an occasional sip from my dad’s cocktail (that I thought tasted hor-ri-ble)… my high school years were downright law-abiding. And except for the time a policeman stopped me for a dangling license plate – my criminal record is squeaky clean.

Gatherings with alcohol and pot? Not a one. Neither my high school besties or peripheral buddies partook.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

While reminiscing at a HS reunion, we got to talking about some of the different cliques back in the day; including the stoners. I just had to pontificate on how we (the collective we) had so much fun in HIGH school without having to drink or smoke at all. I playfully offered that we were “high on life”. 

It was then and there I learned ‘twas an alternate universe.

“Uh, Karen, I was high every day of senior year”. Say what??!!

I was dumbfounded. Had I been deceived? Was I just plain clueless?

And despite the fact that my fellow alumna candidly told me otherwise (HIGH EVERY DAY SENIOR YEAR) I have zero memories of any of that stuff in my presence.

Was it actually being passed around? Had it been offered to me? If so, it was waaay under my radar, behind my back or subconsciously erased from my memory bank. 

There’s nothing to see here – move along, move along. Lalalalalala…

COLLEGE WAS NOT A TRIP

Week one. Freshman. Made the scene at a party in my dorm with a fellow high-on-lif-er (name rhymes with Shmarla).

We encountered a metal drum filled with some concoction involving Everclear and lemonade and drank an entire Dixie-cup full. With arms stretched wide we claimed to have our peripheral vision.

I did not like that.

Sophomore year one of our roommates was having a lot of fun knocking ‘em back at fraternity parties. We would often find her laid out on the bathroom floor. We (me and name rhymes with Shpatti) would gingerly walk over and around her to do our business.

First of all, we were not invited to these soirees. 

Secondly, I guess we didn’t perceive her horizontal sprawling to be quite enough fun to ask for an invite.

Thirdly, let me reiterate, we just walked over and around her.

Now I might have been to one or two parties where marijuana was passed, but I never felt pressure to take a drag. Plus I was a scaredy-cat.

Listen, I saw Reefer Madness!

And I was also quick to say NO to Boone’s Farm after grappling with a spinning room and time spent hugging the toilet. Was that supposed to be fun? Thanks but no thanks.

STRUNG OUT ON SHOWBIZ

Despite attending many, many cast parties (and other celebrations) during my performing days I never saw cocaine being offered or snorted or whatever you do. Not once.

Was I really that naïve? Was it covertly going down in another room? Plastic baggies filled with powdery substances and rolled up hundred dollar bills?

I’m not totally unacquainted – I saw The Wolf of Wallstreet.

If fellow attendees were doing it, discussing it, buying it… WHERE WAS I??? I know – la-la land. Somebody please fill me in!

WASTED… ON ME

At 22 years of age I figured it was time to give grass a try. I procured the stuff. Yes I did.

With two fellow collaborators (names rhyme with Shmarla and Shpatti) I smoked the stuff. And found the stuff  to be meh.

Going out to dinner afterwards, we stared at one another while waiting for something to happen. Was I stoned? Was time altered? Was I supposed to be having fun? I was neither euphoric nor crying out for potato chips.

Also, I acknowledge publicly, I probably did not inhale.

I did assure my crestfallen daughters, whom I imagine were desirous of hearing a more interesting history, that I did drink beer in college (back when the legal age was 18 – so probably doesn’t count), and in the 70’s, my share of white Russians.

“My share” meant almost  finishing one glass of my chosen beverage. Half a glass and I was feelin’ it. I am still one cheap date.

STEWED

Did someone turn up the heat?

I was seeing RED.

I was BLAZING mad.

I was all STEAMED up – a bundle of unrestrained irrational$#*%!@!

Without warning, I felt an exceedingly blistery HOT sensation making it’s way from the pit of my stomach, looping through my ribcage, soaring up my chest, shimmying up my neck and emerging on my face.

MENOPAUSE.

Heading full-on into its arms, it was clear that something was not quite right; that something being ME. 

But it wasn’t just the hot, hot, HOT happenings. It was ME going from zero to one hundred in response to a perceived injustice. Like my husband leaving a drawer slightly ajar, or the knife with glob of peanut butter now globbed onto the counter, or… well you get the idea.

A hastily made appointment with my drug dealer doctor involved me frantically appealing for help.

Like need-my-fix–nooooow doc!!

So after all those many years of abstention and moderation I am one hundred percent into DRUG. Singular.

And although my husband occasionally (and very carefully) inquires, “Do you need to up your dose?” – my ‘drug of choice’ is Zoloft.

My bad ass, bitchin’, exquisite child-sized dose.

Peace and love.

~image via The Austin Chronicle