Last week I developed a nasty cough, which led to a sore throat, sprinkled with good-time aches. Although I'm doing better, I went to the doctor Tuesday to confirm aliens weren't colonizing my lungs. He denied contact, but did find lingering germies in the form of a sinus infection. wooo. check it though - the scale had me two pounds lighter than the gym. BONUS!
He wrote a prescription, but suggested I try a saline nasal spray first. I avoided the homeo (yo) option until the evening because I didn't know what to expect. The last time I was given a similar treatment was when this goofy doctor told me I had post-nasal drip, when in fact I had mega infected tonsils (they were removed 3 weeks later.) So my track record with this stuff was nearly zilch and I probably did it wrong then too.
Randomly, and without consistency, I can turn all nerves when I don't know the expected outcome is or how my body will react. It's the same way getting blood drawn makes me tense. Because you never know when they'll blow up your vein! But with nasal spray, what's the worst that could happen. My nose will sting? I'll gag? It won't work? I was being lame, so I conceded to give "Ocean" a try. Which, by the way, is like the
silliest and most accurate brand name of a product I've seen in a while.
{cough, cough. why am I such a wuss.}
So there I was. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, teary eyes darting between a shallow reflection and the orange capped bottle. Twice in each nostril... I repeatedly brought the solution to my nose, pausing when I couldn't find enough strength to nudge the thin plastic. My legs were noodles; empty. Nervously laughing and seconds away from calling Travis for moral support, he rounded to corner. mon ami.
I handed him the Ocean so he could practice a few times. The spray wasn't much to protest, so I said "shove it up and squeeze!" And on the count of 3, laughing, my sweet fella obliged his lady wife.
{spray spray} Oh that was it? I got worked up over a behavior that's nothing more than unnatural. I turned to him, smiled, and off-offhandedly remarked "What's wrong with me? Doing lines was easier than this."
And here's why...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I flashed back to junior high, early 90s.
"Don't do drugs" was a learned theme, but the perception as
youngins was only if you're doing something nasty like heroin. And all
my parents ever said on the subject was you shouldn't. pffft, ok. I
didn't know enough to be fearful of pot itself, yet knew smoke wasn't
totally my bag. I watched dad puff away on cigarettes day after day,
the pack forever sequestered by his cotton shirt pocket. My biggest gripe was the foul odor, attaching to anyone and anything, which I naively associated with
the smoke, rather than the article burned.
The day in particular was warm, probably around spring - the air dancing, sun eye shielding. A group of us waiting patiently for early release, in our yet to be baggy pants. We'd meet at Ryan's house because his parents were gone and his older brother had scored some pot. The 6 of us were going to get high! (HA, we dared not brag though for fear our teachers would find out and do, um, what? I don't know) It was decided so matter of fact, I never questioned it. There was no desire to. I was in the throws of confidence shattering puberty and rebelliousness was just over the horizon. So why the fuck not.
Despite having the experience of watching pops draw smoke my whole life, I was mortified how my attempt at smoking out would be viewed. My friends were dear and forever kind towards me, but they were cool. And as the hour approached, my tension elevated. Not for the reasons you're thinking. I didn't know what to expect or how I'd feel. But I refused to be the fool looking awkward and ridiculous, more so than I already pictured myself being on any given day. Gah! I could do this. I could totally do this. I could get a little high and make out this with one guy whose name doesn't matter. It would be a day to remember for always.
So there I was, face to face with a hand-crafted pipe made from, no less than 1 foot of durable PVC. I stared down the barrel and raised the thick cylinder to my mouth. My beautiful girlfriend calmly said "just breathe in," while Ryan hugged her from behind. With eyes shut, took the quickest, most powerfull inhale* ever. Think of when you prepare to hold your breath, now speed that up 4x. HOLY FUCK MY THROAT! Every element of hot, seething smoke flew 12 inches down the pipe, hitting every cell of my esophagus. I coughed, hard, for so many minutes. Dagnabbit. My first chance to usher in the next phase of life and I failed. Miserably.
* with pot, don't ever inhale via quick, jarring breaths. please.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It would be a few years before trying pot again, finally succeeding naturally with a different group of welcoming people. Funny how one wrong breath set the stage for shaping not only a rambunctious
high school career, but also the positivity that shaped my life
afterwards.
This tale of my first experience is meant to acknowledge why I still engage with these often mild, but still mad neurosis. I've simply traded drugs for nasal spray... apparently. It's why my brain justified first choosing mind altering & sniffy substances, rather than an herb. Why once pot was in my rotation, I would take a couple sniffs of speed, only to bring myself down with a bowl or two. It's may not seem logical now, but everyones story has a place.
I wouldn't change it for anything.
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