It was 2003, I think—the year of the big blackout on the East Coast. I was living in New York City at the time and couldn’t get home because the subways were down. So, a coworker I always thought of as “a little younger” than me offered to let me stay at his place. Before your dirty minds start working, we’re both straight guys. He invited some of his pals over. So far, so good, but I was beginning to realize that I was a 31-year-old in an apartment full of 19- to 22-year-olds. The evening progressed, a lot of liquor was consumed, and I was feeling like my old college self. Then, in a moment that haunts me to this day, my hip, young coworker leaned over to me and quietly, politely asked, “Do you mind if we all smoke some pot?”
Do I mind? Hey, I’m a cool young guy. What makes you assume that I don’t want to smoke pot with you? OK, so I’ve never smoked pot, and I’m a complete dork. But I hadn’t previously realized that I was an adult.