I didn’t inhale on 4/20 this year.
However, I did ingest.
Specifically, I sucked on two pieces of watermelon-flavored hard candies infused with THC—the active ingredient in cannabis—until they completely dissolved on my tongue and entered into my bloodstream.
To be clear, I didn’t pop two pieces into my mouth in rapid succession. I’ve read Maureen Dowd’s infamous 2014 column about her ill-fated run-in with a hopped-up chocolate bar in Colorado (“I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours”) and I know better than to over-indulge an edible with so little experience under my belt.
No, I did exactly what the packaging told me to do: “Start with one piece. Wait two hours. Be mindful. Enjoy.”
In retrospect, I should’ve been a little less mindful.
Precisely 120 minutes after my first dose, I felt no physical or psychological effects whatsoever. At that point, I rather restively administered dose number two, from which proceeded another hour-plus of nothing, followed, at long last, by a slight tingle of…….something. Not a high, per se, let alone a full-blown case of the giggles and/or the munchies. Nope, just a passing wave of vague euphoria that ended almost as quickly as it began—five, ten minutes, tops.
And that, regrettably, was that. An evening’s worth of buildup to a virtually non-existent payoff. So much for the warning on the back of the box: “The effects of this product may last for many hours.”
What made this 4/20 test run all the curiouser was how very different it was from the night before, Good Friday, when I introduced myself to the world of edibles for the very first time. In that case, I consumed a single lozenge around 8 o’clock. At 9:15, while sprawled on the couch watching TV, I found myself breaking into a spontaneous full-body sweat, my heart thumping 50 percent harder than it was a moment before, my mind unable to concentrate on anything beyond removing my socks so my feet wouldn’t suffocate.
While I wouldn’t describe this scene as Maureen Dowd-level paralysis—“hallucinatory” is too grand a word to apply here—I nonetheless kept more-or-less completely still as the weird and less-than-wonderful sensation swept over me, resigned to sit quietly until the perspiration subsided and my heart tucked itself back into my chest, where it belongs.
When both of those things occurred—again, it didn’t take terribly long, although it sure felt like it—I had no particular urge to double my money with another hit of THC just then. As a newbie, better to quit while I’m ahead, declare the experiment a success (of sorts) and spend the balance of my Friday night with a relaxing—and altogether predictable—bottle of merlot.
It’s a truism of the pot world that marijuana affects everyone differently. As has now been proved to me, it is equally true that its effects on a given individual can vary from one day to the next.
Of course, none of the above would be of the slightest interest to anybody, except for one extraordinary fact: It was all perfectly legal.
Through a voter referendum, the commonwealth of Massachusetts legalized the sale and consumption of marijuana for recreational purposes on November 8, 2016. And last Thanksgiving—a mere 742 days after the fact—the state’s first two cannabis retail establishments officially opened for business.
Today, there are 15 pot shops (and counting) sprinkled across Massachusetts—including, as of last month, the first recreational dispensary in Greater Boston, New England Treatment Access (NETA) in Brookline, which is where I found myself last Friday morning. When I arrived at 9:50, there were at least 30 people lined up outside the former Brookline Bank where NETA is housed, waiting to get in. When the place opened 10 minutes later, at least as many cheery townsfolk were lined up behind me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who knew that April 20 was mere hours away.
Customers were escorted inside the ornate marble building five at a time—after getting their IDs checked and scanned, a Brookline police officer stationed casually nearby—and were promptly handed an eight-page menu of the shop’s litany of products, as they waited for the next available register. (As with the bank that used to occupy the same space, all valuables were concealed safely behind the counter.)
While tempted by the Belgian dark chocolate bar—Maureen Dowd’s experience notwithstanding—I finally opted for the 16-piece “D-Line Gems,” which the sales associate fetched and rung up for an even $30—$25 for the candy itself, plus a 20 percent sales tax that, per the law, is added to all cannabis-related purchases. (Actually, it’s three different taxes in one—“local marijuana tax,” “sales tax (cannabis)” and “marijuana excise tax”—but who’s counting?)
Oddly, I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in purchasing an actual cannabis plant, nor the various accessories that go with it. At my advanced age (31), I suppose I just don’t have the patience for the rituals that old-fashioned pot smoking entails. As a working man who regularly interacts with the general public, I could certainly do without the smell.
In truth, I could probably do without marijuana altogether, whether smoked, sucked, swallowed or swilled. Before last week, I hadn’t touched the stuff in nearly nine years, and only a handful of times before that. Sometimes it’s been a blast; other times, a bust. I expect I’ll be paying NETA another visit sooner or later, although I doubt it will become much of a habit.
In a country that still occasionally calls itself the land of the free, I’m just happy, at long last, to have the choice.