Day 0: Last Day as a Smoker

As usual I didn't have a lighter on me. I'm notorious amongst my friends for pocketing lighters. It's not a stretch to say that there are certain friends who will not let me out of sight with their lighter for fear that, in my wanton forgetfulness, I will put it in my pocket and then run off with it, presumably to Mexico where I will make tens of dollars in the underground American lighter trade.

Because no one smokes at work, my only recourse was the newsstand around the corner. I approached the clerk and asked him for some matches. As he turned around to fetch them I noticed that the old man was back. He was tall, scraggly and sported front teeth that would have been fixed by braces if he had the good graces to have been born in the last twenty years.

I had run into him before when I was wearing my "Reagan/Bush '84" t-shirt that Mike had given me. The old man had not taken so kindly to it.

"Bush? What the hell is wrong with you?!" he spat out, the amount of saliva somehow surpassing the amount of disgust in his voice.

I explained to him, as I do more often than I'd like, although I imagine it's what I deserve, that I was only a month old when Reagan's second term began, and that yes for all purposes the shirt was "ironic" and no, I'm not a right winger, in fact I am the only son of former left wing radicals...

So, judging the way he was eying me as I waited for my matches it was clear that he had some sort of opinion that he was intent on sharing.

The clerk handed me the matches and I struck one up. I lit my cigarette and sucked in.

"Those things are coffin nails," the old man said to me. He had the same bewildered look on his face as my first encounter with him. It's not one I haven't seen before. People in their fifties and sixties somehow find it damn near impossible to wrap their minds around the notion that young people still smoke.

"I know," I said, trying to flash a grin that I'd hope an author would describe as "devil may care" but is probably best described as "your emotional forthrightness is making me somewhat uncomfortable."

I usually have some sort of prepared remark when someone tries to guilt me about smoking, this one is my favorite:

THEM: "Hey those things will kill ya!"

ME: "Yeah, but so will voting Republican."

Unfortunately, I'm neither quick enough nor guilted enough to have ever used this come back. But in my head I am constantly belittling every asshole who votes Republican and tries to make me feel bad about smoking. In my imagination I am also a mutant from the X-Men and have both Wolverine and Gambit's powers. Also I am the best rapper ever.

Wanting to extricate myself, I affirmed the old man's statement as true. He had a point I was well aware of. If anyone knows how bad smoking is for you, it's a smoker.

He sighed and shook his head. The elderly often feel entitled to dispense advice and I could feel one of those moments coming on, so I thanked the clerk and began to walk away.

"Those things really are coffin nails, you know!" the old man shouted after me.

I kept walking.

I cannot stand to be guilt tripped. I cannot stand to be made ashamed for simply living my life. It's both a personality flaw and strength. But this time was different. It's been a long time coming, but goddammit, that crotchety old man who has nothing better to do on a Tuesday morning then hang out at the newsstand is right.

These fucking things are killing me.

Tomorrow, Monday, April 13th, 2009 I am going to quit smoking. I can't do this anymore. Above all, it's boring. Smoking doesn't make me cool, it doesn't make me edgy. Besides I have a tattoo now! That's more than enough edge to make up for living a smoke free lifestyle.

Tomorrow morning I will wake up, not smoke a cigarette before I shower, not smoke a cigarette in my car, and head to the CVS where I will buy the patch and begin a new life (man, even I find that a bit trite) as a non-smoker.

Because:

I'm tired of my clothes smelling like smoke.
I'm tired of having to go outside to smoke when I'm around my friends.
I'm tired of being just a little too drunk to know better when it comes to buying an eight dollar pack of cigarettes at a bar.
I'm tired of waking up in the morning, coughing up phlegm and wondering how much of it is lung.
I'm tired of being addicted to some chemical that serves no value other than to compel to me buy more of said chemical. I feel like a fucking chump.

It's entirely appropriate to label smoking as a form of suicide. It may be a slow slog that can last decades, but in the end, it is suicide.

And I don't want to die.

I'm not going to keep nailing the coffin shut.

Tomorrow is DAY 1. Let's see what I got.

The Thermals - "I Let it Go"