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?
