I am 30 years old. I’ve been a smoker for over half of my life (and no, I don’t count that 4 month stint last year as actually “quitting” since I did start back up).
I started smoking at 15. At the time, I didn’t plan on being a life-long smoker. It wasn’t a habit, it was a hobby. It was the Thing We Did to look bored and disinterested and immortal. And cool, don’t forget cool. Cigarettes are in most of the photos of my life from my teen years- in a mouth, in a hand, rolled up in a sleeve (but not mine- trust me).
I kept smoking in college. So did everyone else… that’s what the smart kids did on the steps in between classes, on the balcony of the dorm, in the bars, on walks down by the river… we smoked, and we were brilliant. The cigarette was that thing with which we gestured. A long thoughtful deep inhale often punctuated a long thoughtful deep thought. Some of the most profound conversations of my life happened in the wee hours of the morning in front of Boozeman dorm when we’d take breaks from all-nighters to roll around in nicotine and caffeine.
Every home I’ve ever lived in since then had a porch- perfect for smoking on. Smoking, and talking on the phone. The two have gone hand-in-hand for all of my adult life– sit on the porch, catch up with a friend, listen to the breeze/crickets/rain/traffic/etc, and smoke. Every major argument I’ve had has happened on one of those porches- because you can’t argue without smoking. Every real relationship I’ve ever had has been with a smoker. And don’t even get me started on booze and cigarettes… the only thing I love more than a good cider is a good cider with a good cigarette.
I could quit a “habit” easily, I think. I go off caffeine easily. Heck, my brief stint into vegetarianism wasn’t even that painful; meat may be part of life as I know it, but it’s exclusion wasn’t really that big of a deal. Cigarettes, though… it’s like giving up on a pet or a friend or my hair color or something else that has been part of who I am for over 15 years. I’m doing it, but it’s hard. First there’s the chemical process- aided greatly by Chantix, but still there. Then there’s the whole oral fixation/hand business thing. Knitting and mints help, but again… it’s still there. And then there’s the part of me that feels like I need to mourn the smoker that I was, to miss that filthy dirty stinky expensive habit, that selfish beast that would proclaim to the world “I don’t care if it kills me, I’m going to do what I wanna do, because that’s how I roll.” That’s the kicker, and that’s the part that’s the hardest, believe it or not. Maybe I need to find another selfish outlet. Maybe I should take up skydiving or pyrotechnics or some other dangerous sport. Maybe I just need to mourn it and get over it.
Either way, wish me luck.

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