I was still wary of weed when I first moved to SF. Too much cough-inducing grind too many huge stumps in college made me a little shy about getting high, and after half a dozen instances of lying on my dorm bed for hours on end with the room spinning and feeling dead, I became one of those people who thought, “Meh, maybe weed just isn’t for me.”
But then I was kindly introduced to the different strains of marijuana, smiling San Francisco stoners who would give me a cute, non-intimidating indica-filled vape pen if I turned down a bowl for fear of hallucinating after one hit. .
I became an indica girl — like an Indigo Girl, but more chilled. “It is awesome!” I’d tell my also-weed-warranted friends, all of a sudden an all-knowing weed connoisseur. “You just have to find the right kind.”
Despite my bravado, the idea of pharmacies and all their options and lines and systems intimidated me, so when I first got my medical marijuana card, I dipped my toe in the world with a friendly app: FlowKana. Within an hour of placing my order a sweet, smiling, friendly man in nice leather shoes showed up at my front door and told me what I had bought. It was almost too easy and I was totally hooked. After that, it took me four months to even set foot in a brick and mortar store.
So when FlowKana delivered some samples for us to try – an indica, a sativa – I took both, but let the Candy Jack sativa collect dust on my sideboard. “I’m an indica girl,” I told myself happily as I packed a bowl of Relax Zkittlez, an indica-dominant strain. I took a few hits and three hours later was still on the floor watching the Great British Baking Show. I had to pee. The dog had to pee. But moving was too much work. I was too relaxed.
Stubborn, I kept smoking the stuff. For days I slept past my alarm clock and woke up feeling like my head was full of cotton wool.
“It’s the weed,” my friend kept saying. I ignored him because hello I was an indica girl but in the middle of an episode of Fargo one night he gave me a wrapped bowl and I took a hit. When the show was over, I cleaned the entire kitchen like a devil.
“Look, it’s not the weed,” I said triumphantly, standing on the counter scrubbing the ceiling lights. He handed me the pot of sativa in silence.
I get it now, the marijuana thing. The mystery of how people got high and danced, or in public at all, has been solved. My new hobby: smoke a bowl and gum from my bathroom. I’m a sativa girl now, and my house? It’s damn sparkling.