Sympathy for smokers
Eric Long
Fitter, Happier ...
Hi, my name is Eric and I'm a smoker. (Hi, Eric.) Rather, I used to be a smoker. Recently, my doctor strong-armed me into "quitting," a word that solicits wry chuckles and sardonic grins when mentioned in the company of fellow-smokers.
Oh, everyone tries to quit at least once a season, and everyone always comes crawling back. I've had friends quit for weeks at a time, only to start up again; friends who've gone on the dubious nicotine patch to try to ease the quitting process (a mistake that lightens the wallet and the head, because the patch-wearing smoker inevitably lights up to see if the buzz is enhanced by the patch ... it is); friends who've quit for weeks at a time and use this as leverage for smoking more.
"I can quit whenever I want," they reason. I've been guilty of the punishment-reward method of quitting: go a few days without, and then "treat" myself to a whole pack in a night, because "it has been so long since I last smoked."
Most of you cannot relate to this. Most of you don't have to worry about quitting because you never really started. You are the non-smokers and weekend smokers, and you are smarter than I am. A weekend smoker is not a true smoker, but I do not mean any disrespect. The weekend smoker should be quite proud to be a weekend smoker. It requires great strength to fiddle with pure evil and not let it get the best of you. I myself have never been that strong. I was hooked from the start.
Why did I start smoking? The answer is easy enough. Of course, it wasn't because I saw Joe Camel and became mesmerized by the dignified, hip idea of a human-sized camel smoking a cigarette while driving a shiny convertible, or because some filthy cowboy welcomed me to Marlboro Country ("where flavor lives," if you didn't know). I started smoking to look cool. That's right. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm a total after-school special. I remember: My cousins were "bad" kids. Their parents smoked, and naturally my cousins started smoking out of their mothers' purses and fathers' dresser drawers.
Parents who smoke are the greatest advertising tool available to big tobacco, with "bad" cousins who smoke running a close second. One summer evening, when I was 16 (a whole life ahead of me) there was a family-reunion. All of the kids were hanging out, and some of them were smoking. (One of my cousins used to break the filter off of the cigarette. Hard-core.) Suddenly, it was "Hey, Eric, want a smoke?" I don't know why, but I grabbed the Marlboro Red from its pack, put it to my mouth and inhaled as my cousin lit it with a match. I felt a hot blast on the back of my throat and a pleasurable ache in my chest. Soon I grew light-headed. It was, after all, a Red.
Importantly, smoking felt good and made me cool in the eyes of my cousins. Most of you will probably call me a liar, but I didn't cough when I took that first drag. I held it back with all of my might because of the embarrassment it would have caused.
But I have coughed since then. My relationship with the nicotine-delivery-device has been one-sided and abusive, but I always come back. No matter where I hide out, the cigarette always knows where to find me and that I'll take it back with open arms and open lungs. Go ahead, try to talk to me rationally about the benefits of quitting. You'll ask me how much money I've spent on a substance that will eventually kill me. You'll tell me that people find smoking unattractive, that my mouth smells like a bowling alley; you'll ask how I can read those Surgeon General's warnings and still smoke. Somehow I'll sidestep all of those issues. I'll manage to convince myself that I like the smell of smoke, the taste, the buzz that visits only occasionally now, like a best friend from high school, instantly and fondly embraced.
But my defense will be empty and apologetic, and my eyes will glaze over, and I'll light up another cigarette and sing my own lament. You see, I'm the guy walking to DeBartolo Hall with a cigarette. I'm the guy lighting up the second I step out of the dining hall. I'm the guy standing outside in the rain at four in the morning to get my fix. Well, I used to be, anyway.
Several years ago, Mick Jagger and the Stones suggested that we have a little sympathy for the devil; now, I request sympathy for the smoker. True, I'm dumb enough to have started, addicted enough that I crave cigarettes and forgetful enough to quit for only short time periods. But not this time. It's not an easy choice that I have made, which I will prove to myself again as I try to quit for the 30th time. Please wish me luck.
Eric Long is a junior PLS major. His column appears every other Wednesday.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
All Viewpoint Stories for Wednesday, April 4, 2001
