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.

I'm a Sport

Once upon a time, I was quite sporty.

Athletic, even.

And now, after a 30-minute workout video, I can hardly move.

Sitting down was hard today.

Getting up was even worse.

Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt.

My hair may even be sore.

I hate you, Jillian Michaels.

It almost hurts to type.

With summer on its way, I know cognitively I should be exercising to rid my body of the layer of fat (layers?) that have accumulated through the last six months (nine?).

But I just have to be honest.

I HATE working out.

Does that make you cringe? Feel pity for my aging body? Think of me differently?

Yes, there were these days when I exercised religiously every day for 3 hours to achieve near-State-champion greatness:


I'm #30, the one usually in the back with a grosgrain ribbon-tied ponytail, for those of you that weren't there to witness the madness that was the Lady Blue Devils.

For you, especially, I will tell you that the days of my high school basketball career were some of the best. I walked on to a team, as a very tall, quite skinny freshman, that was bad. Really bad. Something like 2-12 bad. I have no idea how bad exactly, but bad.

I know what you're thinking. It was GIRLS BASKETBALL. Of course it was bad.

You'd be wrong.

I was 6' tall and lanky. "Weak as water," as my coach would say, replete with his southern twang and tweedy jacket. But, he saw promise. Potential. I proceeded to start as a freshman, and then every game thereafter. Eventually I would go on to be quite a defensive player with a good run at the region's record for most blocks. I never was strong, but I was a team player and a Merit Player for my good attitude, stamina and ability to, well, block their team of shorties.

The best part, at the beginning, was the varsity gear. The slicky track suits that we got to wear on game day, embarrassingly modeled below.


The separate outfits that we got to wear while warming up, pre-game, to the tunes of "Whoomp There it Is" and the like.

I could have been happy just with that. But, then there was the camaraderie. The joy of being on a team. The thrill of winning, and decorating our coach's front lawn with toilet paper and spirited signage. The dance parties (with our coach and his fabulous comb-over-do and effervescent cologne) in our tiny, yet colorful locker room, exhibited below, with our regional championship trophy.




And winning like mad.

We went from 2-12 or whatever to winning the subregions my junior year. And then winning the regions that same year. And then going on to have a record-breaking senior year. Selling out the gymnasium, bringing in even more fans than the boys team, who "supposedly" were the headliners after our games, but who didn't draw half the crowd we did.

We went all over the state of Georgia, knocking down opponents in all corners of the AAAA division. We had fun. We won games. Kids got scholarships. And we all were toned, in shape and fast.

Aaaaaannnnnndddd.

Then time caught up with us.

And now, here I am, 15 years later, hurting after one stupid 30-minute workout video showed me who's boss.

Needless to say, I miss the days when a 3-hour practice was routine, running suicides was just an appetizer before the team pasta dinner, a bus ride meant you were on to something great, and each Friday meant you were a star member of the winning team and cheerleaders decorated your locker and brought you cookie cakes that said things like, "Kick Cass" to rile you up for that night's game.

We had a good run. We learned the meaning of teamwork. We went the distance together. We achieved greatness, going something like 13-1. Lost a crucial one in the last seconds of the overtime buzzer, but we had the crowd on our side. Ended up #8 in the entire state of Georgia, in a very competitive division of girls' high school basketball.


And today I'll drink a toast to that.

From my sofa, in the fetal position.

Damn you Jillian Michaels.

If only you said things like Coach Teague used to say, in his thick and loud southern twang, "Y'all don't know whether to wind your butt or scratch your watch" or "You couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat" or "You girls make chickens with their heads cut off look organized," at least I would feel at home. I would understand that the pain was all worth it.

Even if I didn't know what half those phrases meant.

Devil in a Blue Suit?

Last night? I had dreams about high school.

Not the "I forgot my shirt and now I'm in class" or "I didn't study for the exam and now it is on my desk" or "I've missed the bus and now my mom has to drive me to school" or "I'm getting made fun of by the big bad senior girls" variety.

I think one part had people in it that I haven't seen in at least 15 years, and we were all just hanging out catching up. It was like a reunion, without the nametags or the rubber chicken. And, seriously? Her name came right to mind as I woke up. I may have to look her up.

One part had me playing basketball again, but I was this old, which should tell you something about the skill level. And the performance of my aching knees. I'm pretty sure I was in business attire, too.

And part one had me babysitting, or Dear God, maybe they were my kids? Either way, I had a baby and a toddler following me everywhere. I remember the faint smell of peanut butter and jelly.

The last part I can remember had me telling a girl "I was always picked last for sports in school." which honestly isn't true. I was tall, and on a Varsity team. Which didn't say much for my abilities when it came to soccer, rope climbing, Red Rover or other non-basketball/tennis/swimming events. But in my dreams, I was definitely the odd woman out.

Insecure much?

I tossed and turned and changed diapers and took jump shots all night.

I'm exhausted.