Fine, I’ll admit it: I’m a bit of a prude hang. But there are reasons for that.
I’ve never smoked anything. I don’t smoke in part because I have really sensitive eyes (which I didn’t know until recently–we’ll get to that in a minute) and mild sports-related asthma that I’d rather not worsen, but mostly for other reasons. Getting super wasted on ANYTHING seems pointless. It’s expensive (I’d rather spend my money on dessert and shoes) and I really hate the smell of both cigarettes and weed. I also pretty much don’t sleep around, like, at all. Keep in mind, what other people do is their business and doesn’t bother me–until it affects me directly.
What’s unfortunate is that a lot of people who don’t know me that well assume, for whatever reason, that I’m down for whatever at any and all times. Maybe it’s the people I hang out with–some can be considered somewhat shady characters, though I think they’re good people. Maybe it’s my voice, which trails off into what some may consider a stereotypical stoner cadence, or my boobs, which some people interpret as making me easy (because that makes sense). What these people don’t realize is that I accept people as they are, I’ve always kind of sounded like Fran Drescher on Xanax, and I have to be really smitten with someone just to make out with him.
That said, the fact that I’m essentially a nun compared to a lot of people I know, still takes some people by surprise. Case in point: Mike (name has been changed to protect the douchey).
I met Mike through a mutual pal and thought he was super cute–he was really tall, with a gloriously handsome face and awesome thick, wavy hair. He was also hilarious and whip smart. Pretty much, if you took away the “tall,” it seemed like I met the male version of myself. Ahem. Anyway, I was crushing pretty hard, and we got to know each other better at a party one night when we spent the entire thing together just talking and laughing for hours. By then I was crushing even harder–and he finally asked me out. Schwing!
Fast forward to our, uh, date. The show we were going to wound up getting cancelled, so we decided to grab takeout and watch a movie at his apartment. (Dumb move, I know, but the promise of a specific horror flick and wonton soup made it seem a little more legitimate.) This would have been cool, except for a few things.
We stopped at a bar on the way to his place for him to meet up with a pal to pick something up. I’d been picturing a laptop or something, but no. Mike stopped to buy weed. I figured, whatever, it’s his life–not my business. We moved along and got back to his place, which was tiny–and it was rainy and chilly, so the windows were closed. Fine.
We hung out for a bit, and despite my warning him not to get more than his hopes up because I’m pretty prude, Mike tried getting handsy. When I moved away from him, he got frustrated. Really not cute.
Mike proceeded to scowl and smoke up, which, again, is his business–and we were on his property, so I wasn’t about to tell him not to. Not my place, right?
Maybe, but I should have spoken up regardless. The scent of weed has never been my favorite to begin with and has always gotten me a little nauseous for some reason, but this was way worse than any other secondhand smoke I’d ever been subjected to. This was an enclosed, tiny space–and he was smoking skunk weed, which smells exactly how it sounds. Why would anyone want that?! What’s more, my eyes got really itchy, which was bad news bears. My contact lenses were starting to get dry from all the smoke, and I still had to drive home.
It became increasingly clear that Mike was kind of a scumbag–not because of his smoking, but because of his inability to tolerate the word “no” and his total lack of empathy for my reaction to his weed smoke. So I left and headed home, still gagging from the smell. My eyes began burning, so I put in a few rewetting drops and hoped for the best. I went to bed feeling a little gross, but figured it’d pass.
Wrong. When I woke up the next day, I couldn’t open my eyes all the way, and they burned so badly that I felt like someone poured industrial strength shampoo into my poor peepers. I had to call out of work because, well, how was I going to get there if I was pretty much blind? I then had to call my BFF to drive me to my eye doctor, who had to give me prescription drops–apparently all the smoke had aggravated my contacts so much that they actually scratched my eyes up miserably.
So, yeah. Sue me for not being “down to party” or whatever. I’d really rather just grab a pint of ice cream, hang out with cute dogs or go to the movies with friends. At least doing those things won’t land me in the doctor’s office. Oof.
What do you think about partying? Do you have friends who party more than you think they should? Tell me in the comments!