What I've Learned About Smoking

This little habit that I've taken up, after at least ten years of abstinence, continues to be an interesting journey. It fascinates me that I'm still smoking when I hate the taste, hate the smell, and it makes me dizzy. I wouldn't be surprised if smoking contributed to me passing out in a restaurant this summer. Plus, I'm paying about $8.00 a pack. When I was smoking in my 20's, one pack cost 75 cents. These days, I have to skip a meal to justify my habit.

Well, that won't kill me.

On the train ride down to Biarritz a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading David Sedaris' book When You Are Engulfed In Flames. He is a funny guy, to say the least (even though saying the least is not my strong suit). And, he talked about how smoking made him dizzy and he liked that. I'm not one to dismiss somebody's legal high, but I don't look forward to my next cigarette just so that I can have that delicious dizzy feeling. I keep thinking that I get dizzy because I'm just starting out (for the third time in my life). And as soon as I become hard core, the dizziness will stop.

But Mr. Sedaris was an accomplished smoker. A sophisticated, transatlantic smoker. He bought multiple cartons every time he traveled, and asked his friends to bring him more cartons when they visited him in Paris. I wondered where he stored them all. Under the bed? In the attic? Maybe he had a special room, stacked to the ceiling with cigarette cartons. He would go in there, alone, from time to time, and gaze upon them with pleasure, and stroke the boxes lovingly. If this paragon of smoking was still getting dizzy enough to write an ode to his first-drag dizziness, then I better get used to being dizzy.

On that train ride, I noticed other smokers for the first time. I didn't see them when I wasn't smoking. They're pretty quiet. But they know all the stops along the way, and as the train comes 'round the bend and into the station, they walk down the aisle towards the end of the car, steadying themselves by gripping the seats along the way, so that they can jump onto the platform for the very few minutes that the train will be stopped. They don't know each other, but they share a common bond. They nod in a businesslike way, and offer their lighters. Then they stand silently, looking down at their shoes or far down the tracks into the distance, and take quick, long puffs. There's not enough time for a whole cigarette, so when they hear the bell, they toss what's left of about forty cents onto the tracks, and climb back into the car.

I thought about joining them. After all, it was a five hour ride. A long time, in cancer years, to go without a cigarette. And I sort of wanted to feel like I was a member of this furtive but exclusive club, if at least for a few moments. In the old days, it would have been a great way to meet men. But these days, my jowls seem to get in the way. That's ok, I had visions of me getting dizzy and missing the bell anyway. There I'd be, out on a platform somewhere between the vineyards of Bordeaux, La forêt des Landes and Dax, with the sound of my train fading away in the distance. My longtime fear of being lost or stranded trumped my desire to be one of the smokin' boyz.

I also wanted to pride myself in the fact that I wasn't as addicted as them. I didn't need to step out for a smoke, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. Those poor guys have such a desperate need, such a jones for their addiction, but me, I just have a casual, social habit. I can quit any time.

I can quit the kind of casual, social habit that kills you, evidently. In France, they're not so subtle about their anti-smoking messages. In America, the focus is on the interests of the corporation (I'm sure many of you have figured that one out in the last few weeks), and not on consumer interests. So, their death threats are small, easy to miss. In France, it's exactly the opposite. Therefore, tobacco companies have a tiny place on the pack for their logo, maybe two or three more lines for ingredients, and the rest of the pack is covered with huge dire warnings:

SMOKING KILLS.


















SMOKING CAN DRAW AWAY A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH.

















Alrighty then! Certain death stares up at me, in big black block letters, as I go through the ritual - the only thing I really remember about smoking in my youth. There's so much pleasure in the buildup, the foreplay. Opening my purse, searching for the pack. Opening the flap of the box, sliding a fragile stick out, putting it in my mouth. Then searching for, and finding the lighter. It's now that I look up, and around. I don't see anything, but I want this moment to last a second longer. Me, with my fresh new unsmoked cigarette in between my lips, my right hand wrapped around the lighter, my left hand cupped protectively around the future flame site, right thumb poised on the flick switch, hovering just below the business end of the cigarette. A perfect stance. One to hold on to. The deciding moment. Just before the climax of the cigarette, the lighting of it, and the first inhale. That first inhale is heaven on earth.

After that luscious moment, everything else is shit. Blech. Pull after pull of noxious fumes, the brown stain of poisonous, addictive nicotine growing darker on the end of the once-pristine filter. Hard evidence of my folly. The chemical additives make it burn faster. Thank God. When can this be over, I start thinking. When can I justify throwing away this disgusting, expensive thing? Or must I finish it to the bitter end, making sure I get the best bang, shall we say, for my buck?

If I had servants hovering behind me, holding the tailings of my silk gown above the mud and slush, I'd pass the fucker on to them and let them have at it.

Instead, I wait for the dizziness to reach its zenith. It takes about three hits. Then, my eyes blur a bit, my stomach turns. I carefully flick off the molten end of the cigarette, and put the butt back into my pack. There are pennies there, you know. Pennies I need to save. But the next time I start my foreplay ritual, it disappoints. Because all of the fresh, unsmoked sticks have now been tainted by the insertion of their ashen, stunted brother. Everyone's embarrassed. Including me.

In this most recent book of his, David Sedaris decided that he needed to quit smoking. I don't remember why. For someone who cherished every moment, even the dizziness, I would think he would smoke until he put down his humorous pen for the last time. But, par for the course for Mr. Sedaris (one book and see how familiar I get?), he decided he couldn't just quit quietly. No. He needed to quit big. As big as his room full of cartons. So, he and his lover moved to Tokyo. Japan! That's where smoking is a status symbol. If you don't smoke, there's something wrong with you. Why, this is the perfect place! He also spent a fortune on nicotine lozenges (5 boxes!) and invested in 80 patches and, maybe a few cock rings. I don't know. Whatever works. But he didn't use most of them. He just got all wrapped up in the talking appliances in his Japanese bathroom, and all the places on his body that they so gently, so politely, offered to clean. In hopes of avoiding the washing out of the wrong crevasse, he started taking Japanese lessons.

I've already accomplished step 1. I've run off to a foreign country. Perhaps now I need to take some time and get to know my French toilet. It refuses to speak to me, which I'm sure does not surprise you. Those snooty Parisians! The bath tub, unaccustomed to people who bathe on a daily basis, is currently feeling overworked and is pouting. I'm suspicious of the sink. It tends to run hot and cold. I expect une grève du bain at any moment.

I think I'll have a quick cigarette, and contemplate my strategy.