As a baby boomer, I’ve led a relatively innocent life. My mistakes are not catalogued for the world to see on social media, I married my high school sweetheart and my kids (God bless them, but it’s great to have some spare rooms) are out of the house with kids of their own.
It got me thinking, aside from a few rowdy nights I haven’t really done anything rebellious since I was a teenager.
Then, last week at a semi-regular gathering of grandfathers that have known each other for far too long, I got my chance. A friend of mine, having finished his second glass of what he described as a “playful pinot,” turned to me and whispered under his breath.
“Do you smoke weed?”
Putting aside my surprise at my friend using a slang term rather than the proper name of the drug (he’s the type of guy who would know the scientific name) this put me in a difficult position.
Before I go any further, spoiler alert: I didn’t smoke the joint.
Besides the health concerns, I was quite excited at the prospect of sneaking out the back of the pub to “smoke weed.” I’ve only smoked five times in my life, and one of those was marijuana. Surely after all this time, I’ve earned another puff.
While I had been mulling over this conundrum, my friend had been whispering to another three of our friends. I would like to think he had identified the four people who he thought looked the coolest, but it’s far more likely that geographical convenience played a part. We were all sitting at the same table. Regardless, he tapped his nose knowingly and ventured outside, with two of the three invited drug fiends in tow.
Later that evening, at home with my wife and a very legal intoxicant, I Googled the pros and cons of marijuana. The first website I came to explained the upsides, including more radiant skin, getting more intelligent and being more popular.
It’s likely that I didn’t stumble across a scientific paper.
It ends up that inhaling smoke into your lungs is not good for you, regardless of whether it’s tobacco, marijuana or standing too close to a 44-gallon drum after using it to burn a pile of your son’s Playboys that you found in the garage and he insisted were “just for the articles.”
In my next blog, I’ll tell you what I found out about vaping.