In the Weeds

Tonight after work, I got into the elevator at my condo building with four others. Three young men in their late teens or early twenties in casual dress, and one older woman in what looked like a church pot-luck dinner dress and pearls. I slid in the front, closest to the elevator door.

I smelled it instantly.

As soon as the metal door slid shut, the whiff of marijuana was so strong that it almost made my eyes water. If I hadn't known better, I'd thought that it was being smoked IN the elevator. I suspect it was just in a pocket, or sticking to clothes from a recent smoke, but I'm not sure. I couldn't help but smile to myself and think how the offender must have been either super-conscious of the scent, or oblivious to it entirely.

For risk of drug profiling, I won't commit immediately to which character I believe was carrying the pot and the corresponding smell.

But let's just be fair. Unless this lady goes to some seriously happening pot-lucks, I think we all know who had the weed.

The best part is this.

As we reached floor three, the little old lady, standing to my left in the corner by the elevator buttons, said brightly, "My my. It sure smells like grass in here!"

I almost swallowed my tongue.

And then she, with a happy grin, continued, "You boys must have been out there playing in the park, huh?"

Oh. That kind of grass.

Nope, Grandma, pretty sure you were right the first time.

The boys didn't respond to either statement. But when she exited the elevator on the 11th floor, and the doors slid closed, they broke out in a fit of laughter, bumping each other and generally just cracking up. It took everything in my power not to turn around and laugh with them, but I'm pretty sure they'd have just told this story later and included the part where the middle-aged lady laughed with them like she was a hip young thing.

So I refrained.

Grandma's reaction reminds me of the naivete that I experienced in high school, on the subject of weed.

I was a pretty solid goody-two-shoes. I know, you're shocked. It goes against every tough girl image you have of me. But, it's true. I had never smelled, seen or much less smoked pot. I was 14 years old, and living a very 14-year old life of innocence and childish joys. I recall vividly asking my mom what pot smelled like. (I have no idea what prompted that question.)

She said, and she was right, "When you smell it, you'll know. It smells sickly sweet, and nothing else smells quite like it."

Fast forward a few months. It was 1991 and I was a high school freshman. A bunch of kids decided to go to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Aerosmith. I went along. Brought my blanket and my hooded sweatshirt—you know, the innocent's essentials.

During the show, perched on the lawn littered with colorful blankets, fans of all ages and beer cans and other trash, I sat with my friends and jammed to the show.

At one point, as the sun started to slip behind the theater, I turned around to realize that someone was sitting on the back edge of our blanket. It appeared they were holding a small pottery souvenir. And? Lighting it. Hmmm.

I was unsure. I mean, I wasn't a total imbecile, but again, I was pretty naive to all things illegal.

Quietly asking a friend nearby, I remember asking what that kid was doing.

My friend looked at me incredulously, "Uhm, he's smoking a bowl." Like I was the biggest idiot ever.

He may have been right, but I didn't know. I nodded like I knew that and of course that miniature piece of pottery was a bowl. That you smoked with. I knew that.

I got home that night, in time for my 11 pm curfew, and told my mom the story.

The first question she asked wasn't, "Did you do it?!?!" with horror. Nope. She said, with a knowing smile, "So now you know what it smells like. Sickly sweet, isn't it?"

She was right. Just one of the many life lessons I learned from my mom in those pivotal years.

I guess no one ever taught Grandma that one.

It Rings True

It's a double-edged sword, to say the least.

When I'm meeting clients, vendors or prospects in a business setting, the conversation, usually over copious amounts of wine, turns to the elements of our personal life (like tonight, so please forgive anything I say from here on out). It is at this point that I feel like we really "connect." I get to see the true personality—the hobbies, interests, passions and pursuits that make these people who they really are—not just during the week, but in real life.

Unfortunately, for me, the conversation almost inevitably, and so it should, turns to children. How many, what ages, what sports they play, what talents they possess, and so on.

Genuinely, I ask, listen and nod along. I review the photos, ask the ages, record mentally their names. I do care—it is these conversations that often evoke a simple secret, a small nugget of truth, with which I can connect to the client, vendor or prospect at a later date. These factoids come in handy, and I am blessed with a strong enough short-term memory to invoke them when needed. It serves me well.

Ironically, then, that it is the exact same conversation that often reveals to me the stark contrast between what clients, vendors or prospects THINK of me, and what is real.

Most obviously, my age.

Because I do not have a husband and children (more so the latter), I am often judged as far younger than I am. I know, this seems a small price to pay and one that carries no pity from you all out there. However, in the early-to-mid part of my career, with more than 11 years under my belt and far more to come, I feel that I have worked hard to overcome many such judgments and age-based discriminations thus far.

I have risen to the occasion, met the challenge, exceeded the expectations. I have put myself, or been placed inadvertently or on purpose, in positions that will force me to "mature professionally" quickly, and have proven myself to be worthy of the opportunity. I am proud of where I stand in my career, and have nothing to hide.

But, since I don't talk openly of my little girl in first grade, or my darling son in pre-school, the aforementioned clients, vendors and prospects all assume immediately that I am younger than I am. Which, in turn, leads to a preconceived notion of my experience, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

I know I shouldn't care. I should be flattered by the impartial assummtpion that I am 25 or 26 (because, seriously, have they seen the lines on my face?). But, frankly, after working this hard for the past decade and more, I wish that it didn't require having birthed a small person to earn their trust and respect.

Because at this point, I'm practically willing to buy a CZ ring and fill my wallet and memory bank with images and stories of children that I don't yet know, if only to validate the respect and trust that I have earned through my hard work with such professional contacts.

If you're a mother, working outside the home or within, I hope you're not offended. But, please know that you're immediately granted some level of "wisdom" that I'm certain you've earned—through potty training or breastfeeding or diaper-changing—that subconsciously imparts that you are world-wise (and possibly world-weary!) in a way that cannot be transcribed to us simple working women. I can't explain it, but it's true. I see it on their faces, and then hear it in their voices when they make jokes about me being just a handful of years past college graduation. (As if. I can't even recall most of my college experience.)

I'm not claiming to know it all—or more than any of my mothering friends—but frankly, the natural assumption of business contacts that I am less of a 'mature woman' because I'm not yet fortunate to be a mother and wife assumes that I don't want that, have passed that by, aren't interested, or, frankly, wouldn't willingly leave all this behind in a heartbeat to find that privilege.

Not so fast.

The ring and the baby stroller may not be in my immediate present, but I assure you, they will be in my future. And until then, I'll continue to be the best client service professional you've ever met. And will celebrate my 26th birthday 7 more times over.

Oh wait. I have. I'll have to make that 8+.