It Happened to Me: I Wound Up in the ER After a Ridiculously Tiny Bite of a Pot Gummy
I am so proud to present the second in our ongoing (hopefully for life) series of It Happened To Me stories submitted by you. We are paying $50 each (until we can pay more one day), so do what Genevieve did and send whatever happened to you to us at jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com. The process works! -Jane
I’ve spent most of my life as a creative “slashy.” Artist/Retail Salesgirl, Actress/Waitress, Stylist/Sommelier — you name it. But one thing I’ve never been is a drinker/pot smoker. I’m more of a liquid depressant enthusiast, favoring fermented grapes as a stand-alone.
Not to yuck anyone’s yum, but I’ve never vibed with weed culture. Reggae, the unofficial stoner soundtrack, is my least favorite genre. Slow talkers test my patience. And the “lewk” (hand-knitted, multicolored berets, beaded curtains, lava lamps, and pot-leaf throw pillows) has never done it for me. Oh, and I’m one of those Karens who can’t stand the smell of the Devil’s Lettuce. Once, my friend Sara confessed she loved the smell — like, loved it. She said it was one of her favorites. I stared at her as if she’d grown two heads, both of them looking suspiciously like Cheech and Chong.
By the way, the best holiday present is right here.
But as I entered my forties and perimenopause, the alcohol calories started catching up with me. Suddenly, I found myself envying certain aspects of reefer culture: the effortless nonchalance about literally everything, their Netflix & Chill lifestyle before Netflix even existed, and the way ganja seemed to unlock some magical, creative portal I desperately wanted to step through. Mostly, though, I admired its cost-effective high without the caloric side effects. That is, as long as you didn’t get the munchies. But that was a bridge(mix) I’d cross once I got over forcing myself to fall in love with Mary Jane.
Back in my early twenties, while dating a long-time crush who worshipped the band Phish, I let myself get talked into going to one of their concerts. At the time, whatever my boyfriends loved, I made myself love, too — classic shape-shifter behavior. (Don’t worry, I’m a recovered shape-shifter now.) During the road trip to the concert in his predictably beat-up van, we somehow acquired a pot brownie. Feeling adventurous, and eager to impress my hot, Chris Cornell-lookalike boyfriend, I gamely nibbled the edge of the chocolate chip cookie brownie.
I was high for three days.
I do not remember one iota of the Phish concert goings-on or the camping trip we planned (okay, he planned; again, pretending to love the outdoors and all things “dude” was my bag!). I was technically there, but really, I was in the seventh circle of hell. Strangers spoke in garbled, warped speech, time either stopped or sped up, and I felt like Sybil when her other personalities would take over — hiding in a corner of my mind waiting my turn to “be.”
That would be the last time I ate marijuana until….
Two decades later, I was working at an Italian restaurant with a chef who made his own pot treats for the staff. I’m fairly certain the entire “back of house” was perpetually high while slow-simmering our house Bolognese sauce. If you’ve ever worked in the food and beverage industry, you know that sitting at the bar doing your books and tip-outs after a long shift requires an alcoholic beverage — strictly for medical reasons, of course.
But I started getting curious about the little pot gummies our chef sold for a few bucks a pop. Maybe I could get faded and tackle my books on just 10 calories instead of the 100 per shot. So, one night, I slipped him a fiver and got my hands on one of his adorable red gummies. It looked just like those cinnamon bears you’d grab at the local Quick-E-Mart.