Don't think too hard... Go with the first memory that comes to mind: The word is JOINTS.

I have too many joint memories, I can't go with just one.

·         Humphrey Bogart joint:

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”  When I was in my 20s, I met my first husband Stan in one of his favorite joints, The Flagship. Located in Hermosa Beach near the pier, it was a smoky, dimly lit, noisy hangout where playing darts and drinking beer were the favorite pastimes. Unsurprisingly, the marriage didn’t last. What was I thinking?

A joint I remember fondly was called Fat Face Fenner’s Faloon, also in Hermosa Beach. I chose to celebrate a couple of my birthdays in this joint. In addition to their large selection of beer, they were known for their fat hamburgers, and I always ordered mine piled high with cheese, mushrooms and guacamole. Yum!

·         Don’t bogart that joint:

I remember being amazed when my friend’s mother smoked a joint with us when I worked in Rocky Mountain Park. Now that I think back on it, she was in her 50s and about the same age as I am now. From this perspective, it just doesn’t seem quite so mind-boggling as it did then!

During that same summer, a group of us were camping in Mesa Verde when a downpour hit in the middle of the night and we awoke to a river running through our tent. We scrambled into my trusty Nova, cracked the windows and decided to light up a joint.  Or two or three.  Afterwards, we promptly went to sleep. The next morning we awoke to the sound of tourists chatting outside the car, and the tell-tale sight of dried-up roaches plastered to the car windows!

My friend George had a low tolerance for pot and there were many times we’d tease him in our Boulder apartment when he got that dazed, staring-into-space look on his face. “Earth to George!”

The last joint I remember smoking was with my next door neighbor in California. Her husband’s band had briefly switched from rock to country music, and we wanted to learn to line dance. After we put the kids to bed one Friday night we smoked a joint and cranked up a “how to line dance” video. Fun, silly times!

·         Sore joints (a sure sign of my age):

I knelt on a sewing needle with my left knee when I was 9 years old, which was followed by knee surgery and a month in the hospital.

I crashed on the back of a motorcycle one New Year’s Day and landed on a metal stake in the ground with my right knee, which was followed by three months of physical therapy.

I suffered through tennis elbow in my right arm for over a year, entailing three cortisone shots into the elbow.

I crashed on my bicycle and landed on my left shoulder/hip, lost consciousness and was taken to the hospital by paramedics. I still have a sore left hip joint.

As I grow older, all these joint injuries are coming back to haunt me!