You know when your adult child comes to visit for a couple of days, and you’re so excited to see him? And you’re like, I need to impress him with how cool we are, so he comes more often?

So you go to a modern art museum and resist regaling him with stories about how he used to cavort among the Rodins at the Brooklyn Museum when he was an adorable preschooler. But you think it. You think it hard. And then you walk around the nearby town’s Main Street, with its aggressively charming stores and cafes, and you get a snack and some coffee, and then your adult child says, hey, look, a dispensary.

And you think, well, he’s an adult, after all; we can be cool about this. And it’s not like he’s hidden his weed habit from you. (You used to wish he would try to hide it a little.) So you enter the dispensary. It’s one of the higher-end dispensaries you’ve been in, with prices to match. And then you think: Hey, maybe I should buy something for me. Sure, the last hundred times I’ve smoked or had an edible have been either a disappointment or an outright disaster, but this time surely things will be different!