It’s 4:15 on a Sunday afternoon and I’m way too stoned for yoga. A few minutes ago, my old pal HD pulled his Prius into the parking lot of my neighborhood studio and fired up a lump of Golden Pineapple. It was a sativa, much too heady for me; while he smoked, I packed my own bowl with a nugget of Purple Haze, an indica-sativa hybrid that my medical marijuana “bud-tender” swore wouldn’t make me anxious. I now realize that I understated my low tolerance (and how rarely I partake, anywhere from zero to a handful of times a year), and that she underestimated my ability to become needlessly nervous. Which brings me here, superbaked and mildly paranoid in a yoga-studio lobby, where I mill among the strangers and try to figure out what to do first—take off my shoes or sign in.
It’s safe to say that most of our classmates are stoned, too. HD and I have come to Atwater Yoga, in Los Angeles, to attend the “420 Remedy” class, a restorative session that welcomes students who are under the influence of marijuana. Despite our shared state of mind, knowing that the others are stoned does not ease my paranoia. Lucky for me, HD is a longtime cannabis user, and his relaxed presence subdues some of my twitchiness.
Staring quizzically at the swatch of shiny fake grass in the entry room (whoa, AstroTurf has come a long way), I make the impractical decision to simultaneously register and put my sneakers in a cubby. This lapse of logic forces me to speak from across the small lobby in a voice that’s louder than normal. As quickly as I shout my name, my inner critic makes me feel as though I’ve badmouthed the Dalai Lama or otherwise violated my fellow yogis’ right to a peaceful experience. To rectify the faux pas (which in hindsight nobody even noticed), I speak to the instructor in the smooth-jazz manner reserved for massage therapists, funeral attendees, and soakers at the hot springs at Esalen in Big Sur—a voice that says, “Don’t worry; I’m harmless.” I explain that both HD and I prepaid online, only to elicit an anxiety-producing request: “Do you have a receipt? Any proof?”
The question is innocuous, but in my state of hyperawareness I feel accused and mildly annoyed, like Cheech Marin being stopped by a cop in mirrored sunglasses and being asked to show his green card. (Proof? I don’t need no stinkin’ proof!) We brandish our iPhones, present the evidence, and introduce ourselves. The teacher is Stefani. She’s 40-something, warm, and lovely.
HD and I have been friends for 33 years, and our propensity for childlike laughing fits remains, uh, high. (In 1985, while running from a security guard for skateboarding in a shopping mall, I laughed so I hard that I peed in my Guess jeans.) To avoid making a scene, we agree to practice on opposite sides of the room. HD has the foresight to set up in a traffic-free zone, while I unwittingly roll out my mat in the corner next to the props. My poor choice of geography becomes obvious as I try to relax on my back while classmates shuffle past, hauling payloads of blankets, blocks, and bolsters. My synapses fire another squirt of paranoia. Am I in their way? They must think I’m so inconsiderate. Should I get my props, or wait to be instructed? Man, that guy’s legs are hairier than mine!
My mind settles a bit when Stefani walks in and instructs us to lie on our backs, supported by a bolster, with our knees bent and the soles of our feet together. I focus on my breath and feel my heart open a bit, but I’m unable to relax into the pose the way I do when unimpaired. I’m fidgety. My low back feels unusually tight, as if my extensor muscles are suffocating in shrink-wrap. My neck is a jumble of tiny bones and muscles that crunch like gravel under truck tires as I make every effort to soften. More internal monologue: Is my body just beat up from yesterday’s mountain-bike ride? Am I this stiff when I’m not high but too distracted by life to notice? Nah, must be the weed. You shouldn’t smoke weed, Mike. Yes, you should—it creates awareness, reveals the truth. Truth is painful. Oy! So’s my neck.
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