Smoke Signals

The day you realize that you have to stop smoking is much like the day you realize that your life is going to be ordinary instead of extraordinary. I don't mean in a pointless kind of way...just on a small scale within my tiny and beloved world. All of those sessions as a eight year old in front of the bathroom mirror pretending Johnny Carson was interviewing me were all for naught. All that clever and playful banter is never gonna happen. (Well, besides the obvious reason that he's passed on to the Big Desk in the Sky.) I guess what I'm sayin' is that I've had the realization that Time continues that nasty samba across my life and now some kind of forbidden dance is going on in my lungs.

This really should be a post card to Post Secret because I'm going to expose just how pathetic I am. I'm an educated person, really. Well, kinda. I hated the fact that my parents smoked and prided myself on being smoke-free. But it just turned out that I was a late bloomer. Have you ever heard anything as pitiful as a 20 year old picking up the habit? Jeez...I remember a bus ride in Liverpool where a boy who looked like he must've been around 9 or 10 asking me for a fag. Smokers are usually hardcore. They were the cool kids in high school hanging out in the cage that was "the smoking section." Strange to imagine that schools had those only twenty or so years ago?

Needless to say, I didn't hang in the cage. I was medio-core. I started smoking outside of my college dorm as a Junior to catch the attention of a boy...a Freshman for chrissakes...because he went out there to smoke after meals. I never even spoke to the boy and now I've got this life-threatening habit and it's all his fault. I wish I could remember his name and I'd google his ass. God, I don't know if I ever even knew his name?

Anyway, I became a smoker. Oh, I puffed the Dunhill Blues at the finest establishments in the East Village and only when drinking or trying to impress someone. God. I want to go back in time and smack myself. Then the shift occurs when your brand changes...when you downgrade to less of a boutique brand and find yourself on the Camels or Marlboro or God forbid those weird generic brands because they've got those buy three get one free deals at the bodega. You start thinking, "Do I really need to spend six or seven bucks on those Dunhills? I need drinking money!" Yeah, that's addicition.

The real predicament here is that I don't really want to quit...not yet. Of course there are those moments when I hear my mom hacking her lungs up from her two pack a day habit and I worry for her health. But there never seems to be a convenient time to quit. Some tragedy, trauma or my monthly bouts with p.m.s. always delay this quitting thing. But, the Universe is telling me it's time. My dear Smokey Joes irritate my throat and my bronchial tubes tightening with every puff. Worst of all, they just don't taste good anymore. It's time.

What to do? My co-worker suceeded by going cold turkey and she says that's the way to go. Just suffer the withdrawals for a few days and then the rest of the fight is mental. Well, mental fortitude and will power are not any of the bullet points on my resume. I want to smoke when I'm happy, sad, stressed, bored or exhilirated. Even after I see anti-smoking ads I get the craving. Talk about reverse psychology.

And forget going to parties! The only way I survived an afternoon get-together at a friend's house where I knew no one except said friend was to carefully time my cigarette breaks to coincide with whenever I began to feel socially awkward. You expect me to have no brief respite from actually talking to people? These babies are my main crutch. What would I do? Learn to interact with people without an escape plan? Well, maybe we're getting in to territory that is better left for my therapist. If only he would return my calls!