Quitting Smoking

I smoked my first cigarette out of spite. It was a Camel Lite with a speckled light brown filter that I took from a friend's outstretched hand while staring my boyfriend down.

“Ali, don't smoke that,” he said scoldingly, and I reached out my hand for the lighter he held. He didn't hand it over.

“Daniel, help a lady out?” I said to our friend, who was laughing at our standoff.

“Of course,” he said, fumbling in his pocket, smiling like the Cheshire cat. He fished out a green Bic lighter passed it over.

“Thanks, doll,” I said, keeping my tone arch and locking eyes with my glaring boyfriend.

I fumbled with the lighter in the slight breeze and lost all my sense of cool before I finally got it lit. I didn't cough, truly, I didn't even inhale. But I blew the smoke out, feeling like a 1950s bombshell bad girl.

We were arguing about something, I don't recall what exactly. I was trying to prove that he wasn't the boss of me, a position I'm constantly defending for no real reason. Thomas, my boyfriend both ten years ago, the summer of my first cigarette, and now, at the end of my smoking career, is sensible and rarely tries to push his will on anyone. But, when I feel like I'm being ordered to do something, my rebellious streak emerges, generally to my detriment.

I didn't smoke often after that first cigarette. I bought a pack on a whim, because I was 18 and legally able. The pack stayed in the glove box of my car for almost three months, me smoking an occasional cigarette while driving, mostly.

When I moved to DC, I committed to cigarettes. It was a conscious decision that happened one night when I was feeling very lonely during the first week of my semester in the capital. I didn't know anyone in the city, and my roommate and I weren't very compatible. I was standing in front of the huge bay window that took up most of the front of our tiny studio apartment, watching the streetlights switch on, when I noticed a group of fellow interns standing under the apartment buildings green awning, all smoking, talking, and laughing.

The next day I bought a pack of smokes and that evening I joined the crowd. It was immensely fortuitous because the group of smokers that lived in my apartment building and were spending the semester in DC through a Universities of North Carolina program became dear friends. We spent all our free time together, exploring both museums and nightlife with equal enthusiasm.

After that, I was a real smoker. A cigarette in the morning with coffee, cigarette breaks at my various waitressing jobs, cigarettes and wine, cigarettes while walking on campus.

I never pictured myself as a smoker. When a person was surprised when I lit up, I was flattered. I only liked the idea of smoking when I was angsty, like a tortured intellectual, or like a flirty bad girl. And, I was trying on the persona of a tortured intellectual and a flirt quite frequently in college.

Now, when I think about the fact that I've been smoking for TEN years, I feel like a fool. What are the statistics on that? Ten years of smoking, say on average, three packs a week. There are 52 weeks in a year, that equals 1560 packs of cigarettes. Cigarette costs have risen over the past three years, when I first started smoking I could buy a pack for about $2.50, now, it's more like $5.00 a pack. If we average those numbers to $3.75, then I have spent somewhere around $5850 on cigarettes. That is too much money on something that is fundamentally bad for me. That is a lot of cute shoes, books from the real bookstore, nail polish, or dinners out that I couldn't afford because of cigarettes.

So, I'm ready to quit. I've been working up to this for the past three years, quitting for longer and longer stretches each time. And this time, I'm done.

I want to be healthy, I want to live a long time and have great skin. I want to take my time getting married and having babies, and I need my heart and lungs in good working order to facilitate that.

Today is the day. The first of May, 2014, is the day that I quit smoking, for good. Luckily, I have supportive friends and family who want me to be happy and live a long life. Most of my friends are former smokers, and I'm ready to join their ranks. There has got be to some tortured intellectual street cred among former smokers, right?

Regardless, this is another step towards improving my circumstances and I am very excited about that, even with the grumpiness that is sure to come for the next few days. I guess, too, that this essay is an attempt to hold myself accountable to the world at large, too.

So, world,  if you see me sneaking cigs, please feel free to remind me that cigarettes are gross, poison, icky, trashy, and only mean people smoke them. I know that is not true by any stretch of the imagination, but help me pretend till I break the habit, ok?