I need a fucking cigarette. I never “need” a cigarette. I’ve never been addicted to nicotine/tobacco, or anything else you can inhale.
I started smoking my second Junior year of college and smoked semi-regularly socially for the next 2 years. Or maybe it was only 18 months. I think I’ve purchased three packets of cigarettes or cloves in my entire life, anything else I’ve bummed. And, I’m sorry to say, I’ve wasted nearly all of these perfectly good cigs since I seldom actually inhale. My throat and lungs haven’t built up tolerance to heat or smoke; therefore after a couple miserable attempts to inhale I stopped trying. I do, however, look like I’m inhaling, so as to seem like a little less of a compulsive poseur. So, I admit I only have the vaguest of vague ideas what a ‘nic high’ feels like. Dear college and theatre friends - sorry for wasting your cancer-sticks, guys. Thanks for sharing, though.
My ‘quitting’ consisted of two events – a) I was no longer in regular contact with friends who smoked and b) I slipped up a couple times at home and referenced smoking, which I’d never intended to do. Had I actually been a smoker, I would have shared this with my family. I grew up in a pathetically close household, and the habit of hiding things never stuck with me. I only chose to not share my smoking because I was not a ‘real’ smoker, and I knew my parents and sisters would ask ‘well why the hell are you doing it then?’ And my answer embarrassed me. Um, because the cool kids are. And I’m, um, a sheep. And when I’m drunk enough, I like the taste of Camels. Twisted isn’t it? I knowingly jumped off a cliff into white fluffy sheepdom, but couldn’t admit to my family I’d done so. Brand-my-forehead, I’m lame. So, couple this embarrassment with a dwindled supply and - I stopped. It was quite possibly the easiest “quit” ever. I didn’t even need an e-meter to help me.
While I’m being honest, I’ll further admit that I still smoke socially, on the extremely rare occasions when it is ‘appropriate’ to the situation. By ‘extremely rare’ I mean – maybe once a year? Maaaaaaybe? As a hard-working, remote suburb-livin’ mom I don’t find myself in too many crowded bars or clubs anymore, and when I do it’s now usually in a place where it’s illegal to have an indoor smoking section. However, if I down enough alcohol and find that the people I want to continue talking to are heading outside to puff, I might join them. And bum and waste their valuable tobaccy by pretending to inhale.
The only other time I smoke is when I need a particular self-destruct mechanism. My incredibly adult, emotionally intelligent, high-functioning method of dealing with too much pain is to sit by myself and smoke. This is my childish way of giving fate the finger. ‘Oh yeah!’ I notionally say, balancing my Camel delicately in my right hand, ‘is that the best you can do??? You can’t hurt me! I’m electively not-quite-inhaling ground-up carcinogens!’ (Puff for dramatic effect). ‘Screw you, Fate!!!’
It takes a lot, now, to drive me to that point. The older and more experienced I become, the less likely life is to throw me so forceful a pitch that I cannot field it.
But right now, I’m sad to say, I need a fucking cigarette. My husband’s father has leukemia, and this is a sucky blow. I feel for my husband, his sister, his mother, and his dad. I feel for the grandchildren, particularly my daughter who, as she grows more sentient, develops an enormous love for her Papa. I feel for any of us who did not need to deal with this crap. So screw you, Fate, screw you for this turn of events. Go f*ck the f*ck off.
And someone please bum me a cigarette.
Posted by acr at October 9, 2008 07:27 PM | TrackBack