At my smokiest, I inhaled about four packs a week. All of my closest friends smoked; at first, I bummed cigarettes here and there. Eventually, I bought my own. I refused to be the cheapy who "didn't smoke" but always managed to finagle that final cigarette. My cycle of starting and stopping began in college and ended about ten years later.
Whenever I felt I was getting to the point where quitting might be difficult, I threw away my cigarettes. I went cold turkey and never longed for another puff. I'd just slip back into the habit months (sometimes years) later, usually when I was sitting at a bar, a few too many drinks under my belt.
I mean "in my belly."
During my final smoking cycle, I started to analyze my inclination. I noticed I was smoking when I was bored -- not surprising. However, I discovered something surprising -- I didn't actually like to smoke. At all. Smoking made me feel dizzy and nauseous. I estimate that I actually enjoyed one out of twenty cigarettes. I was doing something hazardous to my health -- and wasn't even having fun. It was a bad habit with zero upside.
Pretty goofy.
So I thought some more. And of course there's no need for me to outline all of the reasons why we shouldn't smoke; however, I decided to focus on the shallow, vain reasons: I didn't want my skin to age more quickly than necessary and I didn't want to be looked down on as an "old lady smoker."
You know who I mean? The fifty-year old who looks seventy-three in the shade?
Smoking was semi-acceptable as a twenty-something. But I fast-forwarded through my life and couldn't stand the thought of huffing and puffing in my forties, fifties and beyond. There's an age where smoking just -- looks sad.
I finished my Parliament Lights, and, miraculously, that was that.
No kidding.
