With these golden memories,and overcome by the columnist’s curiosity,I decided in New York to find out what it’s like when it’s legal.
Some of the city’s pot shops are aggressively decked out in stoner culture,but it isn’t too hard to find one that looks like the place a respectable lady might acquire her legal THC. I discovered a little boutique in which designer flavours and strengths are described like fine wines,and where our respectable lady,were she ever to be found in my company,could select from a range of neatly pre-rolled joints and an assortment of edible gummies.
But here things become tricky. Because while an upstanding citizen can purchase these treats,it’s harder to know in what context it might be socially acceptable to consume them.
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As I said,the smell is everywhere. I’m even assaulted as I leave my Pilates class. (Could it be that the spindly princesses who have contorted themselves around me fit the devil’s cabbage into their dietary restrictions?) But it’s opaque to me what are considered appropriate circumstances to fire up.
It occurs to me that,like any mood-altering drug,including alcohol,marijuana is best consumed together with other people who share the illusion that it’s making them funnier. Absent the social effect,there’s the risk of becoming an intolerable bore. I can walk into any bar in this city and share the amusing hallucinations of alcohol with random strangers,but despite its legality,pot is not as ubiquitous a feature of middle-class culture.
And though it can be respectably sourced,it doesn’t seem to be considered part of upper-class culture. A friend of mine,attending Harvard business school,received event instructions stipulating that “clothing emitting excessive marijuana odour,excessively revealing clothing or exposed undergarments[and] clothing with offensive language or graphics” are unwelcome. All these things are legal,but they are clearly not classy.