June-Pearl

I always wished weed was legal until I found myself standing in line at Maggie's Farm for over an hour in Manitou Springs, Colorado on Sunday night. It was quickly approaching 10:00 pm and as we inched along the amusement park-style line, I couldn't help judging the ride-goers.... starting with myself. Had I known I'd be here for over an hour I would have combed my hair, maybe even taken that shower I kept putting off after my midday workout. I was grateful for the jacket that was heavier than I needed that night and hoped it was heavy enough to mask my body odor as I slowly zipped it up. Should I put my hood up to hide my greasy hair? Now it will be apparent I'm covering my insecurity as opposed to if I had walked in hood up. I was already verging on the warm side after zipping my coat, I do not want to start sweating now and risk creating the bog of eternal stench around me. I leave the hood down. I refused to take out my phone and pretend I had some important business or that anyone cared to write me at that hour like the rest of the people in line....no, I am too cool for that. I'm totally comfortable just standing here with nothing to entertain me, quickly diverting my eyes just in the nick of time from meeting another's. I mostly stare off to the side at the tears and strange descriptive writing on the pop-up tent. I remember this place before the tent. I remember when there was no line out the door. Now at 10:30 pm on a Sunday- a time I was certain I could just run over grab my shit and be back in under 20 mins including drive time- I stand here in fight or flight mode. Do I stay the course and get my shit, maybe the line pace will pick up soon? Or do I come to terms with how addiction has gripped my life and run straight home finally standing in my power? A security guard walks through the line yelling “silver escalade.... whoever drives a silver escalade, your car has been hit”. Shit, I can't leave now, they will think I am the silver escalade. I hang in there. I keep my head down but can't stop noticing the girl in sponge bob pajamas and Adidas slide knock-offs. Her teal piggy toes on full display and probably wishing they had sock jackets right about now. She clearly gives no fucks, or maybe she also thought there would be no line, or that at least they would dim those string lights at this hour. I wondered is everyone here addicted to weed like me? The tall old hippie directly in front of me, stick thin with a long silver ponytail.... had he been smoking since the ‘60s? The short stout man ahead of the old hippie- looked like he used to be a mean biker a decade ago but probably just finished washing dishes at a dive bar- hacking and coughing his way through the line indicated he was probably a lifer. Most of the rest of the crowd seemed to be within ten years of my age. I had eyes on one girl for a minute, she doesn't look like a pot smoker, I decide, before instantly wondering if she or any of them might be thinking the same of me. I am turning forty in three months. For the most part I look strait-laced and if you didn't know me you would not assume I am a junkie. I'm sure no one assumed that about my brother either, but he was a different kind of junkie and that’s a whole other story. It's been a lifelong goal of mine to not be a pot-head at 40. This goal had been set for 20, then 30. Even my high school journals indicated I felt I had a problem and wanted to quit then too. One day, I know I will quit for good. I hear my name called and realize I’m at the front of the line. It's my turn to ride the ride... so I guess I’ll quit later.