Day 5: Rock On.

Jane and I in the summer of '76, taken the first day I ever smoked pot. For those of you who might wonder, the photo-illustration was made several months ago for another project. There is no pot currently residing in the house ... but damn that looks good.

My mother has always been my rock. From as far back as I can remember, she made it a matter of fact that there was nothing I couldn't do or be. She's been proud of me when I've done well and supportive when I haven't. And believe me, there have been a lot of "haven'ts" over the years. Especially these last few.

You can understand, then, why it might have been difficult to inform her that, a) her only child has been stoned for seven years running, and b) the rest of the world was about to know it, too.

In typical Mom fashion, she took the news in stride. As far as the whole world knowing, her only request was that she be identified solely as "Mom." And as far as the pot, her only question was, "Why?"

It's a good one. One that deserves an answer. So I'll give it a shot.

In the beginning, when I was 13, I smoked because, well, my best friend Jane's cousin Carol did, and Carol was the coolest girl I'd ever met. It didn't help that I cared about being popular more than just about anything else on the planet. I was already wishing for things that, despite my mother's input, I couldn't be, like petite and small-boned with straight hair and a talent for flirting with boys.

Contrary to other people's experience, I did indeed get stoned the first time I tried it. Carol rolled a joint from her "dime bag," we smoked it, and I spent the remainder of the afternoon laughing my ass off. I distinctly remember standing in Jane's bathroom trying to read my "Wizard of Id" T-shirt backwards in their huge mirror ("Sire, the peasants are revolting!" says the Wizard. "I know," the King replies). I remember tasting her toothpaste and thinking what I considered to be very deep thoughts (I clearly recall my inability to get the toothpaste back in the tube, and comparing it to telling a lie and being unable to undo it). Right off the bat, pot made my insecurities feel vague and far away.

I smoked off and on from that day forward, throughout high school and college, generally under control. In my mind, I smoked because it was fun. It was something to bond over. I'll never forget, for instance, sitting up late with my best friend from college, smoking out of my cigarette-styled one-hitter and having marathon conversations (again, we thought we were quite deep). I loved the ritual of it, loved the floaty feeling of warm detachment. And it didn't hurt that it made everyday moments supremely funny.

I continued on as a recreational smoker for the next 15 years ... but it wasn't until seven years ago that it turned into an everyday thing. Why? Two reasons. First and foremost, I was completely fucking up my very cool career as a screenwriter. It took a few years to fade, but I knew what was coming. I was devastated, terrified and furious at myself, and the more I smoked, the less I had to think about it. Second, I was in a long-term relationship that required more coping skills than I had at my disposal. It was a lot easier to remain stoned than figure out what to do about it.

In general, I took the coward's way out.

Sometimes I think it's amazing that I've smoked as much pot as I have and functioned as highly as I have. Truth be told, that's something I've always been stubbornly proud of. But beneath the surface, I've also wondered what I might be capable of if I quit. I've wondered what might happen if I ever managed to live up to my potential (something that, according to every teacher and professor I've ever had and just about all of my employers, I've never done).

Thanks to this experiment, I might finally find out. But no matter how things go, there's one person I know will always be there to catch me if I fall.

Thanks, Mom ... you rock.

Day 1: Fed Up.

This is the first and last time I'll write in here stoned. It's also the first and last time I'll write weighing 219 pounds. And if I ever feel feel this disgustingly full again, it will be too soon.

I know, big words. And believe me, if you knew how ridiculously afraid I am, you'd put your money on a fast collapse. You'd have every right, and I wouldn't blame you.

Unfortunately, you'd lose. See, a person can only hide behind multiple layers of fat and repeated bong hits for so many years. (My personal limit has turned out to be 29.)

I've been smoking pot off and on (mostly on) since I was 13, and every day for the last seven years. Over those same seven years, I packed an additional 50 pounds on top of the 25 or so extra I carried to begin with.

Three days ago, I was talking with a friend when I jokingly suggested quitting pot for a year and writing a daily blog about the experience. Then it dawned on me that 75 pounds would have to go, too. You know, as long as I was keeping the blog and all.

What's weird is how quickly it went from a larkish comment to some out-of-control thing snowballing towards my ability to have any real say in the matter. Sure, the idea terrified me, but it was also kind of ... exciting. Then came the piece de resistance: My 365-day experiment would begin on Thanksgiving. A day of unrepentant, uniquely American gluttony, followed by the #1 consumer spending day of the year. Consumption at its finest.

It was too deliciously perfect to ignore. It worked on every level. If I actually did this, I could lose weight. I could become a reasonably healthy person. I could be happy. I could get my life back.

I found myself calling my closest friends, telling them my idea, backing myself further into a corner. If I shrank from the challenge now, I'd be the hugest pussy on earth. I'd regret it forever. I'd have to wait another year to even try again. I could be dead by then.

Well, it's 11:55 p.m., and I've saved enough pot for a final bong hit.
*
There. Done. Nothing left. And yeah, I pretty much savored that last hit. I took my time rolling a little ball of weed between my thumb and forefinger, carefully dropped it in the bowl, fired up the lighter and pulled the smoke deep inside my lungs. I held it as long as I could, slowly exhaled ... and almost immediately felt that familiar wave of numb comfort wash over my body. Such a warm feeling. So quiet. So peaceful.

So safe.

It's funny, though. Every time I smoke pot, this experiment seems like a really bad idea. Which, I guess, makes it a really good idea.

But ... wow. No pot for a year. Steady weight loss. Change.

This is going to SUCK in a huge way.