Day Three

I didn’t get very far with this project yesterday. My sister came over to take me out for a birthday lunch, which was nice. We’re now limited to where we can dine because of the new smoking laws. Most restaurants are now nonsmoking. Translation:  most restaurants are out. Believe me, we smokers will find the places in which we can smoke. We will not patronize those places in which our habit is forbidden. And the restauranteurs know this. Accordingly, there are now lounges in virtually every restaurant in the city. You see, lounges are the loophole; it is still permissible to smoke in a lounge—and the bars and lounges are always filled to capacity . . . with diners. 

When I started smoking in the ’70s, I could light up a cigarette in most stores and smoke while shopping. Ashtrays were conveniently placed throughout these establishments; smokers were welcome. Now it is forbidden to smoke in stores and malls. It is also against the law to smoke on airplanes. Translation: I no longer window shop, I no longer fly. The lawmakers are even trying to ban smoking outdoors and smoking in your own home if children are present. And this rant leads me to one major question: why the hell is tobacco still a legal substance? 

Money, money, money. The government will not ban tobacco as long as it is a good source of income. So the government’s official stance is that although it is antismoking, it still wants the tax dollars from the sale of tobacco. Were the government truly antismoking, it would enact a law that forbids the sale of tobacco to neophyte smokers; that is, tobacco would be available only to those people who started smoking prior to the enactment of this law. We smokers would have special cards that we would have to present when purchasing our cigarettes. Although this type of law would feel like a further infringement on my freedom, I would welcome it wholeheartedly! There is no doubt in my mind that tobacco is harmful to many and should be an illegal substance. There is no doubt in my mind that the government has failed our nation, particularly our youth. The law I have suggested makes perfect sense. So where is this law? Whoops! For a minute there, I thought the government was logical, sensible. Where was my head? 

“Janet, you’re too smart to smoke.”  I haven’t forgotten that line from yesterday. Do you know that every time the news reports on a story that is pro-tobacco, I mentally take note of the information? Being a smart girl, I have to justify my habit; therefore, whenever I can glean any information that favors smoking, I do. I’ll give you an example. Years ago I heard a news report regarding smoking and singers.  (I sing and play the guitar.)  The report, from Harvard University no less, stated that smokers who sing have stronger lungs than nonsmokers who do not sing. I smoke, I sing, I am therefore off the hook. I recently heard a report that stated that smokers are far less likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease than are nonsmokers. Yeah! Another point for our side. And just this week I received a pamphlet from the Schizophrenia Society of Alberta that contained a smoking-related article. This report stated that schizophrenics who smoke have better basic cognitive functions than those who do not partake of the weed. I could go on . . . but you get the gist. 

I am 38 years old and still single—never married. I am looking for a man who is not afraid to stare death in the face on a half-hourly basis; I am looking for a man who smokes. I once met a guy who was quite handsome, had a good job and to whom I was definitely attracted. Except, he was a nonsmoker. I remember I totally blew his mind with the following question: “Why don’t you smoke?” He laughed and said no one had ever asked him that question.   

I’m a rebel.  ’Tis true, ’tis true.

I have two packs left from my carton. That means I have two days remaining in which I can smoke. Terrified! 

Why am I quitting smoking? My mind blank as I read and reread that question, I know I have to answer it. I have to answer it in a way that can prove to me that I should and must quit. 

I’m really good at arguing in defense of smoking. How many times have you read or heard about people who have reached the ripe old age of 100 and who have done so smoking and drinking throughout their lives. Believe me, I always pay attention to these people. I read an article that stated people living in Georgia, Russia, outlive those of us residing elsewhere. And virtually everyone in Georgia, Russia, smokes . . . and drinks. 

Ah yes, the link between cigarettes and alcohol, or cigarettes and coffee in my case, must be discussed. Eventually.

Day Two

I am smoking my seventh cigarette of the day. That’s seven cigarettes in two hours. That’s way too much. 

I thought I would wean myself off cigarettes by lowering the number of cigarettes I smoke in a day. That has not worked—at all.  I have three packs left from my carton. I am supposed to quit once and for all when these three packs are gone. The idea of running out of cigarettes, of not having another one, scares the hell out of me. They say it is more difficult to quit smoking than it is to quit heroin. Notably, Keith Richards has quit the heroin . . . but he always has a cigarette on the go. 

The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is light up. I don’t wait until my coffee is made.  Indeed, I don’t even wait for morning! I wake up in the middle of the night to smoke and have done so for at least seven years now. There are countless holes burnt into my mattress to attest to my late night cravings. Once I started a mini-fire and I doused the flames with my bare hands.  I can’t afford to keep up with the cost of replacing my bed sheets. They’re all full of holes now.  The last time I bought new sheets I promised myself I would not smoke in bed anymore. That promise was broken within three days, the first burn hole soon to follow. And the first hole made, I could now relax and smoke in bed anew. 

Why did a girl who earned straight A’s in school—who skipped two grades of high school and started university at age 15—take up smoking? People said it then and still say it now: “Janet, you’re too smart to smoke.”

Day One

Happy Birthday to me. Today is my 38th birthday. That’s 24 in smoking years. Just give me a second.  I’ll start writing this thing as soon as I finish my cigarette . . .

OK. I’m ready. I started smoking on or about my 14th birthday, September 18th. Why?  I’m thinking and my mind is blank. Why?! 

Throughout my early childhood years I was inundated with information about how bad smoking is for one’s health. I remember two TV public service announcements in particular. One featured John Wayne, the Duke, pleading with people to quit smoking. He informed the world that he was dying of lung cancer as a direct result of his longtime smoking habit. The second featured Yul Brynner who told a similar story. 

And I remember one other TV personality from my childhood. He wasn’t world famous. He hosted a local movie show in which he would introduce today’s movie and talk about the stars featured. Joe Van. That was his name. Matinee with Joe Van. I watched this show Monday through Friday. I watched as Joe disclosed to all of us viewers that he had been diagnosed with cancer. And I watched as the disease slowly manifested itself within him. Slowly but steadily, the disease ravaged this once healthy man until he became bone thin, frail, barely able to make it through his brief appearances. Joe Van.

I put out my cigarette no more than 10 minutes ago, and already the craving for the next one has hit me. I’m debating whether to satisfy that craving right now or to try and fight it off, at least for a little while. Insidious. Damned insidious! If I were stranded in a desert with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I was offered the choice of having either a smoke or a glass of water, my answer . . . would not be immediate. The fact that I would pause, even if only for a second, freaks me out. Yet I know that I would take some time to think it over. Cigarette? Water?  Cigarette . . .

I already satisfied that craving I was talking about. No willpower.

Why did I start smoking? Again I pause, and again my mind is blank. I can tell you one thing, though. I thoroughly enjoyed my first cigarette. I loved the taste of it, the feel of it. I loved it so much that I smoked my second cigarette within minutes of finishing the first. Next, I walked to the corner grocery store and bought my very first pack of cigarettes: Matinee king size. Joe had his matinee; now I had mine. I asked the store owner for a couple of packs of matches, which were free in those days. The owner never questioned my age. I’m not even sure if there were any laws in effect at that time regarding smoking and minors. If there were, they were extremely lax.  It was the ’70s, the freedom era.

Yeah, so I smoked a good month before I told anybody about my new habit. I smoked for and by myself. All of my close friends at the time were nonsmokers, so I didn’t start because of peer pressure. In fact, if anything, I was ostracized by my friends because of my nasty habit. I was alone with my cigarettes and, honestly, I didn’t give a damn. I loved smoking!

I just used the past tense. Does this mean that subconsciously, I no longer love smoking?  Hmmmm.

Back to why: Because I loved cigarettes! I loved everything about them. The packaging, the flavor, the feel, the motion, the sexy swirl of the smoke as it exited my mouth—I loved all of it.

Again with the past tense. Those reasons I just cited are no longer as prominent in my thoughts as they once were. These days I seldom pause to appreciate the flavor; I seldom ponder the images formed by the exhaled smoke. I smoke because I crave the cigarettes. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, not often enough, I do think about the taste of my cigarette—and savor it; but most of the time the smoking is just a habitual ritual and I am oblivious as to whether I am actually enjoying my cigarette. Oblivious! When I really stop to think about it, to think about the cigarette between my lips right now, I often find that I’m not even noticing its taste. Sometimes—too often—my cigarettes taste bad.

OK, my parents smoked; that is, they used to smoke. They both quit in their early 40s and haven’t looked back. They have reminded me more than once that I was the one who begged them to quit way back when, back in the days when the Duke was a constant reminder that smoking can kill you. Yeah, I noticed it too. I used the word “can” as opposed to “will.” I am not entirely convinced that smoking is a death sentence. I mean, life is a death sentence. We’re all going to die of something someday. I constantly joke that I would hate to quit smoking and then get killed by some drunk driver as I was crossing the street. The idea that I could die while craving a cigarette that I have denied myself truly bothers me. Loopy, yes. Twisted, definitely.

I did not start smoking because of my parents’ example. Nor did I start due to peer pressure. I tasted that first cigarette and saw that it was good. “Let there be light!” I cried as I struck up my match, the wind gnawing at the flame, threatening to quell its essence entirely before I had sufficient time to ignite my cigarette. Yes, let there be light . . . and lighters.

Welcome

This blog consists of my journal on smoking and the quitting thereof. More accurately, it chronicles my many attempts to quit smoking cigarettes over the years and my thoughts along the way. I in no way wish to endorse my habit; I do, however, justify it . . . a lot. The outcome, as yet, is undecided.