50 Days 'Til 50 Day 29--Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

50 Days 'Til 50Day 29Where There's Smoke, There's FireI can hear the boo’s and hisses already and I’m not even into the first sentence yet. I’m learning now when I put my words out there for all to read, whether they are funny, thoughtful or serious, I leave myself open to all comments, good, bad, and ugly. I’m ok with this. I’m pretty sure at different times in my life many choice words have been used to describe me. I’m ok with this too. I guess what I’m not ok with is this. Now collect yourselves…hold on…wait for it…I’m a smoker.  I was just hoping for an odd second that by my admission I’d be instantaneously rendered smoke free but I have this sudden urge to run outside and smoke a cigarette. There are many things in my lifetime I have overcome and for me to say this would be one I can’t conquer is ridiculous. I’ve even quit once before for many years so I know its possible. Of all my defects it’s the probably the one that I carry the most shame about. Since I do it out in the open, in front of other people, it’s not something I can hide from. It’s unhealthy, it’s smelly, it’s inconsiderate of those who don’t smoke, and it’s pretty much just downright disgusting. Besides the obvious addiction to the nicotine I try and dig a bit deeper into the whys and why nots of this unattractive habit.I’m remembering back to my boyhood days. Everyone smoked. My father, mother, grandmothers, relatives, friends of theirs, it just seemed so normal that I didn’t know a world any different. How many photographs I’ve seen from those years with the Instamatic eye capturing family gatherings complete with ashtray and half lit cigarette gracing the foreground of every picture. One of my favorites was of my mom holding my baby sister Amey in one arm, a spoon for her feeding in her other hand and the lit cigarette in her mouth. That ash would get 3 inches long and never fall off the filter until my mom’s expert manual finesse allowed it to. Another time, I had proudly made my sister one of her first birthday cakes, most probably an E-Z Bake oven original with pink day-glo frosting. We all sang the song as the candle quickly dripped its wax onto my expertly frosted creation. We all took a deep breath and blew. I guess we didn’t know our own breath strength as the collective blow released all the ashes from the ashtray onto the cake in a blizzard of post volcanic gray matter. I was mortified and probably started to cry seeing my beautiful, lopsided, cooked by the heat of a light bulb sculpture now reduced to ash. My mom probably had a back up cake somewhere or we just wiped it off as the Kodak again snapped my sister picking up the entire cake in one hand and gumming whatever morsel would break off into her willing mouth. When my sister and I grew older, old enough to start having those thoughts of what it must feel like to break the rules, well, we did. I remember my mom and dad dressing for the hotel one evening as my sister and I watched them making their nightly transformation. I reached over to the watered down Manhattan on my dad’s dresser and quickly took a swig before they saw me, my sister clapping proudly in the background at her brothers brave move. I remember the smell first. A bit sweet, almost floral. Then the taste. It could have been rubbing alcohol as far as my young palette was concerned. I had to run out of the room and around the corner just to swallow the gulp of turpentine that was now burning inside my mouth. We both agreed after that incident that this was an adult activity and we would be content with our cherry Kool-Aid and Fresca.As we grew up and were given our chores around the house, cleaning the ashtrays was surely included on that list. Knowing we would get some sort of reward for our chores we gladly did whatever it took to claim our prize. We had all kinds of ashtrays. Big square glass ones that sat on the kitchen and dining room tables, cute little round ones that had bean bag bottoms that would sit chair side in the family room next to each parents chair. Souvenir ashtrays that had city names like Boston or Philadelphia hot stamped on their bottoms. My mom had a small one she carried in her purse that had a flip top, that she could flick open at a moments notice when there wasn’t a proper place to stick her smoked butt. We had sparkly crystal ones that only ever saw the light of day at holiday meals and extra special events. I don’t remember my age but I’m guessing 11 or so when I passed one of these trays to see a smoldering half-smoked cig lying in its corner cradle. I flicked the ash as I had seen everyone do many times and pulled the hot butt up to my lips. Not really sure what I was doing, just mimicking the motions of those I had seen I pulled the air into my mouth through the filter. Coughing loudly and eyes watering I quickly dropped it back into its place and ran to the kitchen for some water. Yuck was my only memory. Just yuck. Again this was to be left for the adults.I wished I’d remembered that yuck years later, now 15, when one of my girlfriends pulled out a no doubt stolen pack of her mothers fresh cigarettes from her book bag. She said “come on, lets go smoke one behind the school.” Well, duh. Of course I went.   Awkwardly trying to maneuver this thing back and forth between us without dropping it, in between coughing and laughing we felt oh so grown up all of a sudden. It had an air of being bad about it, but also a feeling of refinement to it. I supposed I felt somehow empowered by this, doing something I knew was wrong but somehow felt so right. I would continue to dabble in this after school or after class activity until my graduation. I’m sure it didn’t take long for the addictive quality to kick in for I was all of sudden smoking a pack a day. I surrounded myself with the other smokers, which there were still many. It seemed so social, so easy. After a meal, or with a cocktail, or out at the club, it was just so effortless and accessible. When people would ask me what brand I smoked I would jokingly say “OP’s”. When they would question what that meant I would tell them. Other Peoples. I wasn’t brand loyal at this point and in the back of my head I always had that silly nagging thought which was “if I buy my own carton then I would truly be an addicted real smoker, so until such a time I would bum other peoples instead.”Years later my smoking buddies started to fall by the wayside. The lines outside the clubs and bars were not for the VIP’s but for the smokers. The airports posted signs “No smoking within 25 feet of the building.” No one smoked inside anymore. Even on recent trips to Europe I noticed that not “everyone smokes.” I started to feel a bit dirty, less glamorous, almost desperate in my attempts to sneak in a cigarette before a movie night, or a dinner out, or a long plane ride. It became harder and harder to find that secret spot where I could freely puff away not to mention the time it took to find a spot. I remember sending my moms a gift box one Christmas as I wasn’t able to travel to be with them. They videotaped the opening of the box which I had carefully packed with all the gifts and even sprinkling in some potpourri into the box for a little extra effect. The first thing my mom said when opening the box wasn’t how pretty all the packages were but “Well, I see your still smoking Joshy.” In all that beautiful packaging and scented potpourri the boxed smelled of cigarette smoke. I was devastated.My partner who is an avid nonsmoker even admitted to me recently that he never would date anyone more than one time once it was discovered they were a smoker. He said “I should consider myself lucky.” Although we have no secrets from each other I started to feel guilty each time I would go outside to smoke. I felt ashamed but as the addiction reared its ugly head I couldn’t stop. I think about how much time is lost when I have to feed my need for the smoke. I think about how many times I keep him and others waiting for me as I duck behind a building to light up. I see how selfish this habit really is. I’ve let go of so many things that don’t serve me anymore over the years so you would think it would be a natural for me to put it down. I finished making it a resolution every year as that didn’t work. I know from my personality that it usually takes a big event to make me see the consequences of my wicked ways. I pray that this will not be the case with smoking. My partner has been asking me for months now what I’ve wanted for my upcoming 50th birthday. I’m not sure what gifts I want from others, but I think I know what gift I’ll be giving myself.jf