Not the kind of pot you'd put a roast in

I've always been the good girl. I've always brought home good grades, didn't take my first sip of alcohol until my 21st birthday, and have never dreamed of trying illegal drugs.

And although I was aware that some of my friends in college occasionally smoked pot, it was rare and never when I was around. Even if I would have wanted to dabble in something like that - which I still don't - I wouldn't really even know who to ask or what exactly to ask for.

Here in New York, I feel it would be a heck of a lot easier to get my hands on drugs. In fact, I had some in my hands earlier today. While I was going on my normal sweep of the coffee shop in the middle of a bustling day, I picked up a dime bag of weed sitting in the middle of the floor.

One of my colleagues saw me pick it up and was quick to snatch it out of my hand, open it, sniff it, and proclaim it "good sh*t." I was even quicker to snatch it back, chastise him, and flush it down the toilet. Call me whatever you want for that move.

But that's not the first time I've been around the stuff. The unmistakable smell comes billowing from an apartment all the way down the hall at my apartment shared by two guys at least a few times a month.

And as the girls in my book club and I were discussing "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett on the roof of a high-rise in the financial district, we were distracted by the smell coming from a young couple lounging nearby on lawn chairs.

I've been behind an intimidating guy holding an umbrella in one hand and a joint in the other, and was even witness to a young, shaggy-haired guy handing his roach to a homeless guy smiling from ear to ear at his good fortune.

I guess it's still kind of shocking how easy this stuff is to come by - even when you're not looking. While none of this makes me want to experiment, it sure would be a hell of a lot easier if I did.