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I am proud to say that I have quit smoking. Again. I have been a cigarette fiend since I was about twelve years old, and - ye who fear eternal enslavement by tobacco - rejoice! Quitting becomes easier after ten years of failed attempts. Relatively few casualties occurred during my most recent period of agonizing, yet triumphant, withdrawal. I was able to avoid my family for a few days. Actually, they avoided me, huddling in one or two rooms of the house while I muttered through clenched teeth and paced the floor. I delayed my "detox" until classes were over, to spare my unwitting students the chilling glares and snide comments that would surely greet even the most minor infraction, and to avoid the risk of being fired for throwing chairs in the classroom.
I started smoking in the same way many people do. My friends and I stole cigarettes from our parents. My father always kept two cartons in his bureau drawer - Winston(TM) and Salem(TM)-- undoubtedly meant to satisfy his taste and self-image on different occasions. We found secret communal places, enshrouded ourselves in bruise-colored smoke. It was valuable ritual to us, and we really did enjoy learning new ways to inhale, sampling exotic new brands such as More(TM), True(TM), Eve(TM), and Multifilter(TM). Smoking was the impetus for all sorts of interaction within our group: social, political, sexual, romantic. In retrospect, it was all about input and output, and there really was something beautiful in the habits we developed and pursued. It was all pretty innocent.
The mythology of teenage smokers fuels endless conversations, and we passed nuggets of wisdom and advice along between drags. Rubbing ashes into your new Levis would accelerate much-desired fading. Eating peanut butter...