After the experience I was much more open with my parents about what I was doing and where I was going. I liked that my parents allowed me a beer or glass of wine with dinner as long as I wasn’t driving. I liked that I didn’t have to be afraid to tell my parents about things in my life if I wanted, though there was plenty we didn’t have to talk about (like the fact that I was sleeping at my boyfriend’s house regularly but pretending to have movie nights with the girls) (they pretended to believe this).
Although we were incredibly open with one another, there were still boundaries: one thing we did not do was smoke weed together. I knew some kids who smoked with their parents regularly, but that seemed wrong. Being high was something you should do with someone your own age, or else, who’s the parent?
So here we are, on our way to some hot springs in the Arizona dessert, the first family vacation where I am out of high school and we are all adults (almost…I had a fake ID they also pretended not to know about). We talked about their previous adventures driving through desserts, hitchhiking and meeting weird people and I cursed being born in such a boring era where I could never have adventures like Kerouac because I had a cell phone and could be tracked down. My mom told me I was too young to complain and every generation wishes they were in the generation before (this was before Midnight In Paris so she had to break it to me), then she pulled something out from her bra and gave me a very creepy smile.
“Mom!” I yelled, “Where did you get that?”
“I brought it on the plane! Come on! I know you smoke pot, it will be fun!”
She lit the joint. I started to panic.
Sure, I liked hearing about my parent’s past, it was fun to imagine them in some sort of sixties flashback scene set to the White Album with a lot of weird celebrity cameos (like Across The Universe but way better and not with Bono), but I didn’t want to see it in reality. I didn’t want to be part of it!
We pulled off the road and into a parking lot. My mom took a hit and I looked around nervously for cops. Why was I the one being paranoid here? My dad told a story about almost getting caught on a plane with a bud in his shoe and how it worked better when it was hidden in mom’s bra. She passed the joint to him and held it to his lips as he inhaled. There was something so grossly sensual about this act that I felt sick.
“Your turn.” She passed it to me in the back seat. Were my parents really going to peer pressure me into smoking weed?