((305)) Confidential: I Tried ((305)) High
HELLO ((305))! What the hell is up? I'll tell you what's floating high and mighty above the ceiling. It's me. Your favorite blogger and dedicated junkie. In honor of Mother Earth Gaia and the renown holiday FOUR EFFING TWENTY I went where few junkies have gone before: stoned to class. Here's how it went down.
Step 1: Pick up the greenery.
With an average day of work behind me, I hit up bae for some of that jazz cabbage. I prefer to do most of my stoned activities in a seated position. Like in front of the TV. Or in front of the fridge. This was definitely something new.
Step 2: Get ready for class.
After Winne-the-Pooh-ing it for far too long in the locker room, I finally found my leggings and was ready for class. I found a spot in the front, where I could stare at my reflection and analyze every move. BIG MISTAKE. The first few minutes of class were spent questioning everything I've I've ever known about a jumping jack. DO MY ARMS ALWAYS DO THAT? (They do.) Eventually, the self-scrutiny started to wane, and I started to get into it.
Step 3: Dance my A$$ off.
LIGHT GAME WAS DOPE. And the DJ was spinning straight to my gosh durn heart. Strong bass lines and repeat-beats had me squatting like a superstar and CAH-RUSHING sprint #1. I was two stepping into that first choreo like a kween. Talk about feeling myself...
Step 4: Reconsider every life choice I've ever made.
For a brief 15 (or 1500, who's to say?) minutes, I thought the end was near. Cotton mouth hit just as the grape vines started mutating into high kick combo steps. Utter shenanigans. I stared into the blinding light wondering if anyone would notice if I just...sat down...right...here.
Step 5: Immediately recover. Embrace Life. Find Bliss.
Having convinced myself that class would never end and I'd have to live out my days as a 24/7 cardio dance hall queen, I asked myself one final, important question: What would Sheryl Sandberg do? SO I LEANED THE F*CK IN. I embraced the twinkling (if incredibly blinding) lights. I (un)willingly absorbed the sweat of those around me. I told that sweaty monster in the mirror, GIRL YOU LOOKING FRESH ENOUGH TO EAT.
By the time the big sprint came around, I was ready to knock this ish out of the park. Jack squats. Low squats. High kicks for days. Nothing could stop me. FLY. ING. HIGH.
Would I do it again?
As someone born with absolutely zero chill, weed plays a friendly little role in my life. It's typically a sedentary role. And I think I'd prefer to keep it that way.