The seconds ticked away like centuries on the clock. Five o’clock in the afternoon couldn’t come soon enough, because 5 p.m. meant more than just quitting time at work. My girlfriend and I were going on a local adventure.
For the first time ever, we were headed to a dispensary.
To clarify, the two of us are not what one would call, cannabis-connoisseurs. We’re more like the ex-theater dorks asking if we could “partake on that doobie, kind sirs?”
The prospect of buying weed in broad daylight — legally — was unfathomable.
We took some advice from some of our more experienced friends, downloaded the Weed Maps app and dug into consumer research. Eventually, we landed on a dispensary in Oklahoma City with great reviews. A surge of adrenaline and a tinge of panic rose in the car as I drove to the shop.
As for my giggling girlfriend, she just kept chanting, “We’s gonna get the weed!”
We pulled into the parking lot as a couple in their mid-40s entered the store.
“Look,” my girlfriend said, pointing at the two. “Mom and Dad are getting the weed too!” All I could think of was, “Joke all you want, that’s us in 20 years. Strap in, sweetheart.”
The metal door creaked open into a smaller, yellow lobby. Snacks and soda were offered in baskets, while an employee checked IDs and sat on possibly the most uncomfortable stool ever designed. She took our cards and our information, thus completing the “check in” process. Her kindness and understanding of our rookie mentalities settled our jittery nerves.
Then my anxiety rose, similar to when I go through airport security. What if I was carrying something I’m not supposed to? What if the ID is invalid? What if? What if times infinity?
Obviously, I was fine and we were given our cards back. Just before we entered the main show room, a security officer turned the corner and said nothing. He didn’t need to; his eyes screamed four words: DON’T. FUCK. WITH. ME.
Shit, we’re doing something wrong. It’s legal, but is it here? Did we find the one place where it isn’t?
We had been conditioned from childhood that buying weed was wrong. These thoughts would soon die in the dank air of the dispensary.
Walking into the showroom felt like we won the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory. By this point, Gene Wilder was singing “Pure Imagination.” Flourishing plants sat next to wide cases of cartridges, batteries and all sorts of strains. Edibles were being picked through by high, hungry customers on the far end of the store.
The louder music was a blend of classic rock and club beats. This made it hard for us to hear one another, much less the bud-tender. She rose her voice to get our attention. I’m thankful she did; chances are, we looked like two lost deer on a deserted freeway.
Ten minutes later, we were educated and knew what we wanted (this is why we tip bud-tenders). We left with two cartridges and an urge to explore a newer, greener horizon in Oklahoma. Is this a great state or what!
