Lately, I find the only consistent thing in my life is the daily text message from my neighborhood pot store. And I don’t even smoke. But at least I know every morning, at 10 am, a glistening chime on my phone will announce a new message. One that reads, “Get a 10% discount on all edibles!” or “Have a Magic Monday!” or “Turn that work day frown upside down!”
While I may hang in the lurch, frustrated about other pressing matters like, wondering if my song will land that ad campaign, or if I booked that big festival, or even if my rent will go up, I shant ever spend a moment worrying whether or not I will receive a message from the exceedingly happy dispensary.
You will never meet people who love their jobs more than the folks who work at these spots. Rightly so. And it begs the question, maybe we should all be high. All the time.
I mean, if I approached every challenge in life through the hypothetical eyes of a stoner, I might relax a little more. I might not worry so much when the Prius in front of me, for unknown reasons, is driving six miles under the speed limit. The perpetually sober version of me who wants to do the “drive-by-look’ of questioning their lack of attentiveness, is ready to put on my oversized judgy pants, self-righteously whirring past them. Or, if they look like they are struggling in any way, or say, over the age of eighty, my heart melts a little and I hate myself for wearing such giant judgy trousers.
Maybe then I wouldn’t want to slash the tires of every dude driving a motorcycle with a sound-barrier-breaking exhaust pipe rumble. Whenever they drive by within a three hundred foot radius, I feel my lunch from yesterday rumble in the bowels of my inner sanctum. My eardrums weep and I am overtaken by sudden rage. I am also compelled to chase them down and ask them,
“Hey you! You with the trash compactor rumbling between your legs! Has riding that bike, making that epically obnoxious sound, ever gotten you laid? Has any man or woman ever rushed up to you after you’ve, vroom vroomed (I don’t exactly know the technical term) and professed their love and/or desire to jump on your crotch? I’m just curious because most people I know immediately turn into Khalesi’s dragon’s after one of your fancy noise machines breaks their water glass or causes them to swallow their gum.”
But then I have a flashback to remembering how much my ex-boyfriend loved to be called obnoxious. He actually thrived on how much people thought he was an asshole. The more he got called out for behaving badly, the happier he became. Similarly, I don’t think vroomy motorcyclists want to be liked either. I think they want to be detested because it means fewer people will bother them when they are vroom vrooming.
And in that respect, they’re living in the same zen space as the stoners who text me every morning; care-free and frolicking in their days.
Maybe I’ve been overthinking this mindfulness thing.
Perhaps instead the answer to all my frustrations is just getting super high, jumping on the nearest hog, vrooming past the Prius and up a mountaintop where I can take it all in, not caring what anyone thinks, knowing my 10am ding will arrive soon.