Puff The Magic (*cough, cough*) Dragon

Today is, so they're saying, the 30th anniversary of the Great American Smokeout. That sounds about right.

The Smokeout kind of holds a place in my heart, although not necessarily a good one. The first one I was but a wide-eyed teenager trying to convince my chain-smoking parents to join in the fun and quit for a day. "But it's just one day!" I kept saying over and over till finally my dad, in that tone of voice only dads can have (and otherwise known as The Feeling-Hurting Voice), said, "Why would I quit smoking for one day when I have no intention of stopping smoking?" And my feelings got hurt and I didn't ask again.

Which is not to say that the Great American Smokeout didn't happen again. It did, every year, without my parents but with plenty of other fine folks for the 30 years it's apparently kept going. I just didn't take much of a personal stake in it after I was told off, save for watching with interest when Mary Alice Williams, who was with CNN at the time so you know how long ago that was, sweated out a Smokeout on TV.

However. However, this year I have a little more of a personal stake in the Smokeout. In fact, well, I seem to be right smack-dab in the middle of it.

Because, as most of you know, in the past 24 months or so I seem to have become a smoker. See? Even now I can't admit it. "Seem to have become." Fuck me, I have become a smoker.

But I didn't mean to, really. It just kind of happened. I mean, here I am, a girl who for all but 2 years of her life was virtually smoke-free. OK, just about everybody has those two or three high school cigarettes, and in my late twenties I'd pop open a box of clove cigarettes when I was really, really drunk. But I certainly wasn't a smoker. I certainly didn't do it in public, and not on any kind of regular basis.

And for years, it was my own personal running joke - that my New Year's Resolution for whatever year it was was to start smoking. Well, in 2004, I by-God did it!

Of course, I had no idea I was doing it. Well, maybe not. I don't even know what possessed me to buy a box of clove cigarettes, that delicacy I hadn't indulged in since my twenties. I took one up the mountain with me to Oktoberfest, hoisted a couple of Jagermeisters, lit it up, and let the good times roll.

And it felt good. That sicky-sweet-smelling smoke winding its way through my post-surgery, still healing tummy. It was wonderful. It was like opium.

Now, I gotta tell you, bloggees, I know I have one of the more addictive personalities out there. I know I was still recovering from surgery. I know I was dealing with clove cigarettes, which, according to a tobacconist I spoke to, you're not supposed to inhale. (If in fact you're supposed to inhale any of them.) Anyway, the thing I'm saying here is that I was smart enough to know all this, and I did it anyway. And I knew I'd probably get hooked, and I did.

One cigarette a month became one a week became one a day became one pack a week became two packs a week, and at that point I knew I was in over my head. I did treat myself by going from the ultra-harsh Djarum Black to the not so harsh and much sweeter Djarum Bali Hai, to the "lightest version they make" Djarum Splash. ("It has to be healthy, there's a surfer on the box!") But no matter how I was slicing it, I was smoking.

And listen to me. I'm not apologizing for that. Smoking's a ball. There's nothing I know like the headrush a clove cigarette gives you, especially accompanied by a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. There's nothing like getting tipsy and lighting up. And really - really - there's nothing like sitting at the computer spinning a blog while you're puffing away.

And as my wonderful buddy Stennie can testify, nothing makes a podcast fun like lighting those ciggies up, one after the other after the other. (Weekly ritual before recording - Stennie asks: "Ready? Got your coffee, got your ciggies?")

And so I learned to smoke. And it wasn't so easy. I set myself on fire once while driving, when I lost an ash onto my knit polo shirt and the front of it went up like the beginning of Bonanza. I had to pat my chest until the flame died down, and had a spot on my skin for a couple of weeks. I also have, thanks to my efforts at learning to smoke, a year-old car with no less than three small cigarette burns on the center console of the interior. That's nice. I also have a black spot - not so much a burn as a brand - on the Comfy Chair. And a gray spot on one of my favorite shirts, the blue, yellow, and white striped one, thanks to another bad light-up.

And then once I was a smoker, I was very upset that I, well, smelled. I didn't think I did at first, until people would be in my general vicinity and say to me, "Have you been smoking?" And then I got ultra-hinky over it all and walked around with small bottles of perfume in my bag, and sprayed Febreze all over the house. And the car. And my clothes, and the bedclothes, and that's not to mention that I sprayed furniture polish all over everything, too.

OK. So I was a smoker, and I smelled, and I burned up several things in my possession. And I toyed with the idea of quitting. And after a long, happy, cigarette-filled Halloween podcast, I decided to quit.

A few things contributed to my decision. First, I was tired of everything I owned, including podmobile2 and the Poderosa, smelling like clove cigarettes. For the uninitiated, clove cigarettes have their very own scent, which to me is no better or worse than regular cigarettes, just different, but it sure seemed to linger a lot in my house and car. I just couldn't seem to get out from under it, no matter how much I cleaned, or how wide I opened my windows.

Second, I developed, if you'll recall, the crud back in October, and I just didn't seem to be able to kick it, even with a high-powered antibiotic. And as I was coughing and wheezing and rattling around in my chestal area, I was also smoking clove cigarettes. And thinking, "You know, I don't guess I should be doing this. But damn, I want one with my coffee!"

Third, my friend San's father-in-law, a lifelong smoker, was diagnosed with throat cancer. And God forgive me for saying this, but this was actually more of an afterthought reason. I know smoking is not good for you, if there's anyone out there who hasn't figured that out yet he shouldn't be allowed out by himself. And I know that this man had smoked for 60 years and I've smoked for two. But there's just something about seeing someone you know discover a lump in his throat and then have to go be marked for chemo. And it was somewhere in the back of my head.

But finally, the main reason in this decision was, well, it just wasn't as fun as it used to be. I got to the point where I'd light up a smoke, get about a third into it, and think, "*sigh*" - and someone who isn't such a dolt would take that to mean, "Hey, why don't I light up a smoke, sigh a third of the way in, and stub the damn thing out." But I don't do that. The addictive personality, you see. Open it, eat it. Light it, smoke it.

Because of that last reason there, the first two days were a breeze. I had a lot of energy, and felt really proud of myself. I made it through a drive to B'burg and back. Then I had a Friday Chill Night and a blog, which were a little tougher, another trip to and from B'burg, still OK. (However, I've noticed my blogs have become a lot more boring with no tobacco involved. Sorry.)

And then came the podcast. I took the coward's way out. Smoking? Nope. Drinking! As you can tell in episode 31 of the hucklebug, Auntie Bet had been imbibing quite a bit.

But it was going OK. I was really feeling good about myself. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, since the day I quit, I've felt like someone's beaten me with a bicycle chain. My joints have ached. I've felt fluish. ("That's funny, she doesn't look fluish.") But it's been worth it to have time to clean the house (smoking took up a lot of my time, I'm convinced, because I have a lot more of it now), and more cash in pocket. (I knew I was spending a mint on smoking, but it didn't really hit me full-tilt till I stopped.)

And there it was. One day from two weeks as a non-smoker. And I went back.

I don't know; I just wanted to. I wanted one at lunchtime. I wanted to smoke during the podcast this week. And I did. And though I can't say that I'm without guilt, I enjoyed every puff. And I puffed till the pack was gone, and haven't bought another.

So I was smoke-free yesterday, and I've been smoke-free today, the day of the 30th Great American Smokeout, which my parents would never participate in. But I am. And I have sympathy for the really serious smokers who are doing without today. Their joints probably ache, too.

But you know, I love smokers, I love non-smokers, and right now, I don't know which I am. I can't say that I never want to smoke again, because there are times that I like smoking. Like the podcast. The only problem is that when the podcast is over there's still a half-pack of cigarettes there calling to me. The sirens.

What they need? To sell cigarettes individually, like cigars. Then I could buy three at a time. But that sounds really sad and not unlike an addict on a bargaining binge.

I'm trying, though.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* There is a new hucklebug podcast up, people, just go here or subscribe through iTunes.