The Dispensary

Over the last several weeks I have tried to prioritize walking. Everything you read cites 30 minutes a day as being not just good for your cardio health, but your brain. Walkers live longer, healthier, happier lives. Whoot! So easy. So cheap. I don't need any gear. Just the normal shoes I walk in anyway. Well, maybe different shoes at some point. These seem to be rock collectors. I feel like The Princess and the Pea. There is nothing more distracting to me than a pebble held captive by the bottom of my shoe. The bonus — no trees on this walk — means every time I stop to pluck one out, I have to practice balance and stand on one foot. I am always falling over as some super fit person comes jogging past me. The best and worst thing about Colorado: all the damn healthy people. They are everywhere. John and I will be sitting having a beer and hot dog on some glorious patio when 15 cyclists fly past us. Uphill. The worst part — these are no spring chickens. They are our age or older. Sigh.

But the walking is helping. I am still sucking air that isn't there, just not as badly as when I first got here. I can mostly walk uphill and speak at the same time. On one of my first group walks, we were coached to take tiny steps. I had no idea this was a strategy for dealing with altitude. There is a lot of science behind it — muscle fiber recruitment. Large movements burn through oxygen and produce the dreaded lactic acid. Anyone who had to bend and unbend their pinky in elementary science class knows the effects of lactic acid. I remember my eight-year-old self being so surprised when this tiny piece of my body would not do my bidding. What foreshadowing that was.

Fast forward 50 years, and all this walking has had a side effect none of the scientific journals mention: grumpy feet. Grumpy Achilles tendons, to be exact. My ridiculously fat calves get tight as a drum, which pulls just enough on the backs of my heels to cause problems. During the day I don't really notice it. But the minute I lie down, there they are. Complaining. "Hey lady, we are here and we are not happy with you. You have been asking a lot of us lately — hauling your short, round self around for close to 10,000 steps a day. No bueno. So we are going to scream while you try to sleep. That's right, don't even try to get comfortable until after midnight."

And that is how it has been for months. Every time I lie down to sleep, my pains wake up. I tried the normal stuff: Tylenol, ibuprofen, an assortment of vitamins that AI said humans my age need to function at optimal levels. None of it was really helping. Every third night, after not sleeping well, I would simply be tired enough to ignore the screaming feet. Then came an epiphany.

Last weekend I happened upon an article about marijuana. It was a study claiming that it doesn't adversely affect memory. I thought this was complete nonsense. I only had it occasionally during my slightly rebellious youth, and it absolutely affected my memory. I could only imagine what the result would be on my now older, more forgetful brain. I consulted AI again. The bottom line, based on several sources it provided: it is all about quantity and age. Heavy users will have more memory issues, which will ease if they stop using. Younger people will also have more issues. But older people? Maybe we are already screwed, so it doesn't really matter. However, for very small doses — 2.5mg to 5mg — it can actually have a positive effect on memory. After all this reading, I wasn't exactly validated in my original opinions. But it did remind me of something. OMG. I live in Colorado. Pot is legal here. I mistake it constantly for an overabundance of urban skunks. Can I just say — they seem to be able to grow all sorts of varieties, so can't they breed out the smell?

Anyway, after some thorough investigation, I discovered a topical cream for aches and pains. Apparently what I was looking for was a 1:1 ratio of THC and CBD. The product with the best reviews was called "The Escape Artist," and it appeared to be around $30. Perfect — there was a dispensary less than a mile from our house. The only hiccup: my debit card was recently hacked and I am awaiting a new one, which hasn't come, and it has been a month, and I need to deal with it, but I am not always very successful at being an adult. This meant I would have to involve the husband.

John has a lot of great qualities. He is typically far more responsible than I am. He manages our bills — by which I mean he actually pays them. He makes sure I don't let things like oil changes fall off the radar. He knows when tuition is due for our older daughter's college bill. He never had a drink until he was in his forties, and he has certainly never smoked pot or had a gummy. So when I told him I had found a fabulous foot cream, and some 1:1 sleep pills I could cut into fourths to hit the sweet 2.5mg THC and CBD spot, he told me to go to a real doctor. AND that I was going to become a drug addict. AND that this was snake oil. AND, well, a lot of other things that after 30 years together I have learned to tune out.

To my surprise, he actually took me to the dispensary. I was kind of giddy. I mean, I know it is legal, but it still feels slightly… not. You go in and there is a window where you hand over your driver's license and they buzz you through to the inner pot sanctum. I am glad I went in knowing what I needed. Otherwise I would have been completely overwhelmed. Thankfully, the budtenders were very nice and patient with me. There was a sale! Thirty percent off — would I like two jars of "The Escape Artist"? And buy one, get one free on the sleep aid. Yes, yes, I will take it all! Great — with all the discounts, my total would only be $245. Cash or debit?

I stood there in shock. The cream that I had for some idiotic reason thought was $30 was on sale for $96. The sleep pills were more reasonable — around $34 for two bottles, but with only 10 pills each. Luckily, cutting them into fourths gives me 40 doses per jar. The second problem: I had no cash and no debit card. I told the helpful budtenders I would be back with my husband's card, but there was no way he was going for $250. I would just get one jar of cream. I went to the parking lot to retrieve John's card. John had stayed in the car as a protest against my buying snake oil.

Me: Honey, they only take cash or a debit card. Can I have yours? John: No. I don't want it tracing back to me so I look like a druggie. Me: No one will think you're a druggie for buying foot cream. John: No.

We leave. I try not to be dejected. I was ridiculously excited about buying something from a dispensary. Granted, my 20-something self would be horrified that instead of something cool — like a quarter bag of Willie's favorite — I was dropping $96 on something unlikely to even enter my bloodstream. I was thinking all of this when a miracle happened. John pulled into an ATM and handed me cash. I am now legally in possession of a jar of THC cream and THC sleeping pills. I am officially a rebel with a cause.

The pills are, eh, okay. I have taken them twice, with better results the first night. It may also be that they are very small and my pill cutter isn't super accurate. The cream, however, is the bomb. I have slept well every night I have used it. My feet aren't screaming. That is a win. I wish it weren't so expensive. I wish my mom and aunt had access to it in Texas. It is strange to be in the same country and have my feet enjoy rights theirs don't.