Zero Chill
Most of us commit to doing some type of stupid shit as a kid. Typically we learn the hard way that taking a crayon to our parents’ white walls maybe sounded artistically freeing in the moment, but ultimately wasn’t worth the hours spent in “time out.” Some of us hook up in high school, get “wasted” with friends, make out with a Kyle in the back of the prom limo and later discover our so-called best friend turned the entire encounter into something that could and did go viral amongst our graduating class. Part of me knew having these experiences, making these “mistakes” was the major key. Still I remained quite resistant to anything that could be perceived as fucking up. I was a straight A student, I never experimented with drugs, I didn’t even go on a proper date until I was out of my parents house living on UCLA’s campus. If I could grab my younger self by her taut, overly hairsprayed ponytail I would say, “LET YOUR FUCKING HAIR DOWN, BITCH.” Metaphorically and otherwise. Mistakes are important. Mistakes get us closer to figuring out who we are. Mistakes, dare I say, bring us home.
My lack of risk taking, experimenting, coloring outside of the lines as a child and adolescent led to me not knowing where these boundaries existed for me as an adult. By junior year of college, I was so incredibly bored of my rule-following, straight-laced ways. I could feel myself bursting at the seams, and not just because I had gained weight studying abroad. I was starting to feel dead inside. I didn’t care about mastering Poli Sci 110 and learning about the Cold War, as thrilling as that may sound. I was ready to do something, anything that was going to make my 20 year old college student life feel distinguishable from that of a retired librarian’s.
After returning from my time spent “studying” in Europe, I discovered that my love interest from sophomore year had abruptly moved on and was already head-over-heels for his new waify, graphic design major girlfriend, “Krissy.” At first, I was mildly devastated that he had somehow graduated from our predominantly superficial infatuation with each other. Had I not made it clear through poking him back on Facebook, “liking” the abstract photos of his experimental ceramic projects, and BBMing him throughout my TA’s office hours that I was totally enamored/ready to start our emotionally mature, adult relationship together? I let myself feel bad about it for a week or two but after he and Krissy made their relationship Facebook official (remember when people literally did this?), I knew it was time to move on.
Luckily for me it was the start of a new quarter which meant new classes, new overpriced readers to read once (at best) then never ever again, new upperclassmen to gaze at, new beginnings (lol)? I loved the idea of a fresh start. By week two of fall quarter, I had already developed a new crush. I felt resilient, renewed, excited at the possibility of more passive flirting on my end! His name was Sam and he was a Poli Sci major. I’d first noticed him the previous year in our Middle Eastern Conflict seminar. He was one of those stoner types who looked like he wasn’t paying attention but whenever he did decide to participate, would catch all of us off guard with his incredibly insightful commentary. That really did it for me. Plus he had longish hair (like just long enough that he could tuck it behind his ears and flip it from one side to the other, in a slow-motion-Erik-Von-Detton-starring-in-anything-kind-of-way).
After a little light Facebook stalking, I discovered he was the president of a club on campus called Students For Sensible Drug Policy, and though I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, activism seemed hot. I was intrigued. According to the internet, we also had a number of mutual friends. Jackpot. His old roommate, Josh, had dated one of my best girlfriends, Tessa, and so there was my in. Now all I needed was a way to break the ice and since going up to him directly and saying hello did not feel like it was in the cards (shoutout to low self esteem!), I quickly brainstormed a plan B.
My inner circle was a predominantly female group of 20 year old fine arts majors all living together in an unusually spacious off-campus apartment on Midvale Ave. By some miracle, this entire group of women seemed to have emerged from the womb each with the emotional maturity of someone in their mid to late 30s: self-assured, body positive, and skilled with the ability to prepare entire delicious meals based on “instinct” alone. Plus they always seemed to be on their periods at the same time, which was both terrifying and beautiful. I was in awe. They taught me how to mix cocktails, keep succulents alive, and when the occasion called for it, apply a tasteful, yet understated cat eye amongst other crucial adult life skills.
One Thursday night during one of our weekly ironic, yet somehow totally serious, America’s Next Top Model watching parties, I attempted to integrate the subject of Sam into our conversation between commercial breaks. Tessa, the painting major with stringy brown hair and the retrofit glasses that looked like she’d found them at some obscure second-hand store in Echo Park, had dated Josh, Sam’s roommate. She was a “serial monogamist”, something I couldn’t relate to on any level (still can’t) but deeply admired. They were on good terms and even hung out in the same group of friends post breakup. I envied her emotional intelligence and her ability to unapologetically go braless 90% of the time.
“Ran into Josh on campus today”. My declaration cut through the room like a bad joke. Truth be told, I had taken a detour on my way to Linguistics in order to casually “run into” the Students For Sensible Drug Policy table perched up mid campus. He just happened to be hanging there in between classes with Sam. Josh and I exchanged friendly waves from across the quad. That was it.
Tessa barely broke her gaze from Tyra Banks, “Oh how was that? Did he mention the potluck?” I looked up from the bowl of popcorn I was cradling between my knees, “Well technically we didn’t speak but yeah, I was in a hurry anyway so...wait, what potluck?” Tessa pulled her glasses from her face, fogged them up using the steam of her breath, then swiftly took the sleeve of her Free People sweater to wipe the lenses clean. “This Saturday…remember? Claire’s making her famous secret dip…and Sasha’s finally going to have an occasion to wear her slutty new jumpsuit. We told you about this weeks ago. Josh says he’s coming…we’ll see.”
Ah, that’s right. It was their annual Thanksgiving potluck and it was already around the corner. “Yes of course, how could I forget. I wouldn’t miss it.” I waited a few seconds, nervously shoved more popcorn down my throat, took a long chug of seltzer then cleared my throat, fishing, “So is um--who else, is gonna be there you think?” Sasha looked my way and began to list familiar names like an auctioneer, “Well let’s see, Lena for sure, Julie and Ryan, Claire Grace Ali Alex and that whole group, Kelly Parker Elliot Spencer, Mel’s friends from birthright, Jake, both of the Gregs, Gavin Chris…” I had stopped listening.
“Do you think, uh Josh is gonna bring anyone or anything?” I interrupted. Tessa answered for Sasha, “I’m sure he’ll bring Sam. They’re attached at the hip these days.” I vaguely remember meeting Sam once in passing. He dropped some weed off for Tessa during finals week last spring and I’d only caught a glimpse of the back of his head as he skated away from her front door. “Laaaaterrrrr ladies of Midvale 555.” Did she know I knew who she was talking about? Wasn’t she being a little presumptuous assuming I knew which Sam she was referring to? Was I overthinking all of this already? (Yes). Regardless, there was my answer. Josh and Sam would likely be there.
I felt a little chill up and down my spine, the good kind. I was already mentally preparing my outfit. Something “sexy” yet understated. I wondered if Urban Outfitters had received this week’s shipment of new product yet. I needed to look good but like the casual and effortless kind of good. I didn’t even know what that meant or if I had ever really achieved any sort of aesthetic that fell between Bat Mitzvah formal and post gym disheveled but this seemed like as good of a time as any to experiment with my “look”.
By the time the day of the potluck arrived, I had made eye contact with Sam a few times in lecture, passed his activism table here and there (pretending like I didn’t see him in an effort to seem cool and disinterested) and physically ran into him one night while leaving Tessa’s apartment in a hurry--we exchanged what can only be described as a mutual smize. Was this progress? Maybe for a 6th grader.
My friend Soph, the only one of the potluck hostesses who wasn’t studying anything art related, casually mentioned she was going to try to get “high as fuck” at their upcoming party and asked if maybe I’d like to finally give it a try. She was the only one of the roommates I let know about my slight crush on Sam. “I think a little weed could really help to loosen you up, Steph. No offense.” She was seemingly more tightly wound than I was and on top of everything she was studying to be an actuary (aka this meant she’d have a job after graduation). She was, just as her entire apartment of free-spirited roommates were, attempting to look out for me. I appreciated it and for the first time in my life felt open to the idea of “experimenting with drugs.”
Almost everyone I knew had already tried just about everything available to try in college and had gotten it out of their system. I needed more information from Soph but ultimately, I felt ready. Maybe I’d finally relax and live in the moment and win Sam over with my extremely chill ways. “Where are you getting your weed?” She said she had some tucked away from a trusted source but that Sam was “going to bring some edibles over.” Wow. Edibles sounded reasonable. I’d much rather eat something than smoke something, right?
Despite knowing very little about who Sam was as a person, I indulged myself in conjuring up his “dream girl” in my mind. Her name would probably be something like Chloe or Dylan. She’d like to get high, but only when she “felt like it.” It just wasn’t that big of a deal to her. She’d be the type who attended Burning Man but had been doing so for years, before it really became a thing. She’d be a philosophy or anthropology major. She’d love to tell the story about that one time she shaved her head just to “try it out” and miraculously was able to pull it off. Nothing really ruffled her feathers unless she found out you didn’t drink organic wine or you weren’t yet registered to vote (the latter was one thing this fictional person and I had in common).
I was trying, fighting most of my natural instincts, to channel my inner Chloe in hopes of winning Sam over. But I was already getting way too ahead of myself. Before I could continue brainwashing myself and pretending like I had even one chill bone in my body, I first needed to answer the important questions like, what the hell was I going to wear??
On the night of the potluck, I was there early to set up aka pour chips into various sized bowls while the girls made the apartment warm and holiday-esque. Beach House was playing softly in the background which felt like the perfect ratio of depressing and festive. My outfit, after MUCH back and forth, was ultimately a navy blue Forever21 cap sleeved tunic paired with black leggings, black Steve Madden lace-up combat boots, a high bun and my choker I’d resurrected from my stash of middle school accessories while home over summer break. I looked like an angsty teen on the way to see the Nutcracker with her parents.
Claire, Tessa’s childhood friend and photography major roommate, was in the kitchen making a family sized portion of mojitos. “Can you be my taste tester, Steph? I can’t tell if it needs more mint or what”. Seconds later, a la Ina Garten, Claire casually plucked a few sprigs of mint from her garden growing on the balcony, threw them into her batch and stirred. “It’s perfect, Claire.” It annoyingly really was the perfect mojito.
I felt buzzed off of three sips of my drink but that could have just been my nerves kicking in. I continued with chip duty when the front door creaked open--it was Soph. “Sorry I’m late guys, I’ve been studying all day. I feel DISGUSTING, what a da--WOW it smells amazing in here….” Claire poked her head out of the kitchen, “SOPH!! It’s about time! Get your ass over here.” She ushered her into the kitchen and put her on hors d'oeuvres duty.
Within 30 min, guests had begun to arrive. It was a mixture of the art crowd I both dreaded and admired, sprinkled with a few jocks and some of Sasha’s foreign exchange student friends she met during her summer pottery intensive. I was trying to play it as cool as possible (read: relatively uncool), distracting myself from staring at the door wondering when Sam was going to get there. I went back into the kitchen to receive a refill on my mojito from Soph. “Listen Steph, Sam is on his way with the weed brownie I requested--you want in, yeah?” I wasn’t totally sure what I was agreeing to but I replied on instinct, “Yeah for sure.” A brownie seemed like a safe choice, wholesome even.
Minutes later when Sam finally arrived we exchanged hellos. Tessa, catching wind of our cryptic greeting, insisted on formally introducing us. And since she was already a little drunk, it went something like, “Oh my god you two finalllllllly. Step into my office. Sam Stephanie, Stephanie Sam. Wow you guys are so cute you should totally make a baby.” I felt myself turn a deep shade of red. I finished off what was left of my cocktail, mint sprigs included. Nervously gripping my solo cup, I waited for Soph to come save me. She must have sensed my inner turmoil because seconds later she guided me into the kitchen, then pulled Sam by the Jansport and dragged him in too, closing the sliding door behind us.
Sam took the brownie out from the front zipper of his backpack. “Listen, you two. This is triple strength, so a little goes a long way, okay?” We nodded like all of this made complete sense. Soph and I each took ¼ a piece to start. I took a small bite and looked over at Sam. “Is it supposed to taste like...shit?” I finished my half, then waited by the window. Soph already seemed to be feeling something. Her eyes were slowly disappearing. I felt nothing. Sam grabbed a beer from the fridge and looked back at me, as if he could sense my disappointment. “It might take a few minutes, don’t stress it.”
He ran his fingers through his visibly dirty, yet seemingly perfect head of dark brown hair before stepping outside to light a joint. Don’t stress it. In an effort to seem more chill than I actually felt, I exited the kitchen and started to make small talk with strangers. So the weed brownie hadn’t worked, oh well. I wasn’t going to let that ruin my night. I still felt the rum or whatever it was that Claire had used in her mojitos and I was finally starting to “loosen up” and enjoy the night. What would Chloe do? She’d mingle, she’d maintain great posture, she’d maybe even write a poem while she was at it.
“You need a refill?” I gestured to Grace’s drink. I’d been chatting with her for what felt like hours. She was studying photography and was currently walking me through how she’d taken a year off to live on a farm in New Zealand, which is where she began leading moon cycle workshops for women, turning their period stained underwear into art. I was starting to feel weird but I wasn’t sure if that was because she was walking me through each photo of said underwear stored on her phone or what. Luckily she nodded yes, she did need more to drink. And so I excused myself to the kitchen to fetch the pitcher. But something stopped me midway between door and fridge.
Why was the room melting? Or was it me, was I melting? Not sure of the difference I paused, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Was I this wasted? I didn’t feel that drunk though—it was a new feeling. My heart was racing, like faster than 45-straight-minutes-on-the-elliptical kind of racing. I made a detour to Soph’s room, grabbing her computer to quickly google symptoms of a stroke.
I wasn’t sure what was happening to my body but I didn’t like it. Party goers were still chatting in the kitchen, in the hallway, around the table full of vaguely familiar Thanksgiving-themed dishes--had they noticed I was flipping out? Who could tell. Suddenly I was overcome with the need to get away from all of their noise. I opened the front door and stepped out to get some air. There was Soph. Plate full of food, evenly sprawled between all 4 stairs leading up to their front porch.
“Stephhhhhhhhhh omgggggg hiiiiiiii where have you beeeeeen”. I looked at her and gently confessed, “Hey I think something bad is happening.” I bent down to get closer, “My body feels, broken. Feel my resting heart rate. Can you feel that? Am I dying?” Her hands were covered in Dorito dust and her eyes were almost fully closed.
She was not a trusted source in this moment, medically or otherwise, but she was all I had. “You’re fiiiiiiiiiinnne I promise.” She paused then tried to feed me a Dorito from her plate “These are SO good you have to try one.” Clearly we were having two very different experiences. Soph’s seemed fun and free-spirited, mine was absolute hell. I made my way from the stairs to the small garden Claire had set up in the front of their apartment complex. I took a seat in the dirt and continued to monitor my resting heart rate. 95? That couldn’t be, right? This felt like the right time to call 911.
But I had forgotten to bring my phone to my spot on the mound of fertilizer so instead of getting up, I stayed put and started doing breathing exercises a lifeguard once taught me after I “nearly drowned” swimming in the deep end at theater camp in the 2nd grade. They weren't working. In one nostril, hold for 5 seconds, out the other. Fuck. I could feel my heartbeat in my eyeballs. This couldn’t be the feeling everyone had been raving about.
I continued to unsuccessfully attempt my exercises until I was interrupted by a soft, kind voice from above. At first I thought it was god welcoming me home. Maybe I had passed away after all. What was I going to tell my parents?
“Hey love, are you okay?” It wasn’t god, but instead a kind looking woman I had never seen before. She was wearing pearl earrings and a forest green cardigan--was she in costume? She seemed like the female version of Mr. Rogers. I was immediately comforted but also still very aware that I was sitting in dirt and therefore inherently embarrassed. Seconds later Sam appeared. “Yo Steph--you good?” What a question. Maybe passing away was the best option here after all? Was this his girlfriend? Had I just crossed over into hell? “This is my sister, Jen.” Oh, thank god. “Hi Jen, nice to meet you.” It felt like a relatively normal introduction until the next sentence left my body. “Would you mind checking my pulse?”
She turned to Sam then looked back to me. “Sam, what did you give this poor girl?”
“No, no it’s not his fault, but yeah I’ve been better. Have you guys seen my cell phone? I need to make a few calls. Anyway yeah, nice to meet you. I’m fine but potentially dying. Does that tree look like it’s melting to you?”
Jen bent down to my level and tried to calm me down. She seemed sweet. Sort of looked exactly like Sam when you broke down her features, but I was trying really hard not to think about that. I don’t remember a ton of what happened after Jen helped to calm me down. I remember collecting myself enough to make it back into the party and straight to Soph’s room in an attempt to sleep off my overzealous edible experience. I remember waking up the next day in my party clothes, boots included, still feeling pretty high. I remember hearing from my dad the following morning, “Was there a reason you left grandma a panicked voicemail last night? She seemed a bit worried but wasn’t sure what that was all about.” Apparently, during the peak of my experience, I had left my grandma a goodbye voicemail. “No dad everything’s fine, sorry about that.”
Soph recommended I go for a run to release the remnants of the brownie left in my system. I took her advice. Back at my apartment, while bent over lacing up my shoes and reliving the bits of shame I’d experienced the night before I started, as a wise woman once said, realizing things.
No amount of weed or pretending I was the chill girl was ever going to get Sam hooked on me. I wasn’t, despite my best efforts, going to be the type of girl who accidentally figured out she could pull off a buzz cut. The type of girl who would go on to curate exhibits at the MoMa, (which the real me would inevitably pay full price admission to go see). The type of girl who’d birth her children at home in the middle of her living room in a blowup pool. And who was I to say what Sam wanted anyway? Had I actually gotten to know him and given him a fair chance at getting to know me?
Perhaps not being the Chloe in a room full of Chloes was, in contrast to years of telling myself otherwise, my strength.
I don’t regret the weed brownie. Nor do I regret my panic and the wide range of emotions that followed. It was important to try all of it on, to realize things. Maybe getting high wasn’t for me? Maybe it was? Maybe next time I’d attempt to start a real conversation with the guy who peaks my interest rather than experiment with a substance that brings out the worst in me in an effort to grab his attention?
Breaking the set of arbitrary rules I’d set for myself was important though. More important than saving myself from the consequences. I’d finally taken a few brightly colored crayons to the white walls of my life and it felt gooood. So I suppose my point, if I have one, is that sometimes it can be absolutely necessary to get too high, sit alone in your friend’s garden covered in soil, and make a few phone calls you’ll ultimately regret in order to understand that making “mistakes” is the key. And that the only person you should ever be going to such great lengths to impress is, yourself.
