OK, let’s get one thing straight: I’m high. Legally high. No shady back-alley deals, no sneaky puff-puff-pass situations. Just me and my doctor-prescribed Ativan. Honestly, it’s the best kind of high because (1) I’m not breaking the law, and (2) I don’t have to worry about accidentally showing up on the evening news with a mugshot and a bewildered expression.

Well, maybe a bewildered expression.

Now, let’s be clear: I’m grounded. No driving, no heavy machinery, no babysitting your kids (trust me, definitely no babysitting). But I will say this—everything tastes better when you’re high. It’s like my taste buds are throwing a rave in my mouth. Why is that? 

Science should look into it, but they probably won’t because they’re too busy with boring stuff like curing diseases.

What’s even better? My creative juices are flowing. I’m brimming with childhood stories I’d forgotten, all of which I now think are hilarious.  and all of these new ideas I mean if I could get paid for one of these ideas I’d be rich.

Granted, I also think everything is hilarious when I’m high, so take that with a grain of salt—or maybe a pastry filled with cream and chocolate.

Which brings me to the current situation – let me tell you about Claire. Claire was the poor, unsuspecting clerk at Paid Leave Oregon who had the misfortune of answering my call after I waited 78 minutes on hold (par for the course, honestly). 

By the time she picked up, I was blasted. I could string words together, sure, but you wouldn’t trust me to watch your goldfish. I mean really.

“Hey Claire,” I said, all casual. “Has anyone ever called you eClaire?”

Silence. A throat-clearing. I could sense her discomfort through the phone. It made me chuckle.

“You know, like the pastry?” I continued, undeterred. 

( I’m super impressed with myself by the way that I was able to use the word undeterred) and I know what it means even though I’m high)

“It’s a puff pastry filled with cream and drizzled with chocolate. Sometimes ganache. Man, eclairs are so good. Do you like eclairs? I wonder which bakeries around here have eclairs…”

At this point, I realized I’d gone full shiny-sparkly-squirrel. Poor Claire tried to steer the conversation back to my claim, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, really laughing. I’m talking can’t-breathe kind of laughing.

She finally asked, “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said between gasps. “It’s just…your name is so cool. And I’m on some medicine that’s making me feel funny.”

“Well,” she said, “I figured something was going on because…you’re really out there.”

“Out there?” I asked. “What does that even mean? Like, outer space? Am I floating? Am I a star?”

By this point, even Claire was laughing. We somehow managed to finish the claim, and she wished me an easy week before hanging up. I hope she went and got herself an eclair.

But wait, there’s more. The UPS guy showed up right after that. He was wearing shorts—it’s January, but apparently that’s a thing—and dropped off a package. I couldn’t resist.

“Hey,” I said, squinting at him. “Are you high?”

“I wish,” he replied.

“Well, I am,” I said. “Is your name Claire?”

“No,” he said flatly, like a man who had seen things.  I mean his eyes went all slack like an assassin and I wasn’t even scared.

“OK, have a good day!”

And with that, I shuffled back to my La-Z-Boy, plopped down, and took a nap.

The moral of this story? Life at 61¾ is weird. I forget how old I am until I look in the mirror or I try to stand up and I feel like I’m going to fall over. 

Sometimes, being legally high means laughing about pastries and making strangers uncomfortable. And that’s OK. Because laughter is medicine, too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find an eclair.