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Springfield, Missouri, United States
I’m in my mid-30s and still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. Most of my interests do not exactly come with a reasonable expectation of financial success, things such as artwork and fiction writing. I’ve been married to a delightful, attractive woman for five years, and, thankfully, neither of us wants to have children, so we can look forward to adult vacations, sleeping late, and disposable income. We do have two dogs, two chinchillas, a gerbil, and three chickens. Only the chickens seem to be pulling their weight vis-à-vis contributions to the household other than excrement.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room

5/4/07


I desperately wish I was one of these people who seem to be able to switch between smoker and non-smoker status at will. I have friends who can go days or even weeks without a cigarette, and then maybe one night out will smoke five or six and seemingly have no desire for one the next day. The fact that my brain is addicted to nicotine like a Washington official is to hookers while other people shrug it off like a ratty coat fills me with envy and irritation.

I have been charged by my soon-to-be wife with quitting smoking by our wedding date which is rapidly chugging down the tracks. We’re getting hitched at the end of June and, to date, I have really done nothing at all in the way of quitting, other than the fact that I have managed to wean myself down to 6-8 coffin nails per day. While a dramatic improvement over the pack-a-day habit I used to enjoy, my fair fiancée is less than impressed. Do I want to quit? Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I want to quit in the same way that most people want to give more to charity, or the way a clergyman wants to stop banging little boys; you know it’s something you should do, but the action just feels so good.

There are few pleasures in this life greater than that first smoke of the day, or firing up a cancer stick while downing an ice-cold martini. It just jazzes all my senses up to 11 and rewards me with a liberal dose of good old dopamine. Speaking of which, I have thought of suggesting to Hanni that I only smoke when I drink, but let’s face facts, here, that conversation would probably go something like this:

Me: What if I just smoke when I drink?
Hanni: But you drink all the time. You’re drinking right now!
Me: (swallowing) Ahhh…wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah; you wanna have sex?
Hanni: (Sigh.) I’m going to sleep. And take off my underwear.


I think I could sell her on the idea of maybe 5 smokes a week, were my addictive brain and questionable willpower able to handle that. I doubt it is. I know I should quit for my health and…well I guess that’s the only reason, really, other than the fact that it doesn’t make you smell particularly nice. But wanting to quit? That’s a horse of a different color. The other day I saw an old man of maybe seventy outside a convenience store puffing away and I thought briefly, “am I a sucker for giving these things up? There’s no history of cancer in my family; maybe I’d beat the odds.” Of course, the old guy could have been 45 years old for all I know, his face and skin ravaged by the stratospheric amounts of carcinogenic air he’d inhaled over the decades. Plus, there is a history of heart problems in my gene pool, and cigarettes are no friend to the old cardiac pump.

I’ve only been smoking for about 10 years; starting relatively late in life at 19, something Hanni mocks me for in and of itself, so no permanent damage has yet been done to my Greek god-like constitution. It’s tough to give up something you really enjoy when there are no detrimental signs as of yet. Then there’s the fact that I’ll be a non-smoker. Smoking is part of my identity, I’ve done it for so long. It would be like deciding to never again use my lewd nudity for comedic effect, and gods know nobody wants that. That’s one thing drug addicts have the most problem with; imagining a life without their vice. And I confess, it’s hard for me to picture myself sans a flaming fag in my fist. (Enjoy that little play on words, dear readers.) What the hell am I supposed to do on break at work? Sit in the lunchroom and watch Regis & Kelly with all those other people I’d rather punch myself in the balls than talk to? Perish the thought. Sometimes the only thing that can get me through a grueling work day is calculating how much longer I have to wait before I can go out and have a smoke; punctuating the 8-5 boredom that is the adult day with a tiny smoky oasis three times daily.

Any suggestions, ladies and gentlemen? Anyone out there who’s kicked the habit with a little probably unhelpful advice to share? I’ve toyed around with “the patch” and it does quell the need for nicotine, but not the want to smoke. I’m thinking of taking up a fancy pill habit to compensate.

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