I never called myself a smoker. I would always qualify my status referring to myself as a cigar-smoker, an occasional pipe-smoker, but never one of those awful cigarette smokers. I justified this because I didn’t smoke that much. A pack or so a week wasn’t that bad – I insisted. My running excused me right? X number marathons equals Y years without having to explain, or worry, right?
The allure was easy and it had very little to do with the addictive properties of smoke. Smokers were more fun, the conversations more interesting, and I smoked exquisite cigarettes. I didn’t want to quit, but I have. I didn’t want to lose those moments – over coffee, after dinner, with a drink, on the patio at a party – the knowingly shared moments, moments that border on being stolen. I will miss the camaraderie of smoking as much as the taste of my particular brand.
Much like my friend, Foggy Dew, announcing my intentions increases the likelihood of success. This is the rare occasion where my vanity is too my benefit – I hate failing, but public failure feels fatal to me. Thus I share this journey with the interweb, I have even added a calendar* to track the time since I have had a cigarette. Eventually the calendar will change to be the last time I have had a pack in my pocket because in a few months I will probably allow myself the occasional cigarette.
I will never proselytize to anyone who smokes, and if I am diagnosed with some fatal disease, the first thing I grab will be a pack of the exquisite cigarettes that I miss already.
* see the link to the right