I will admit, I am hardly unbiased when it comes to cigarettes. I know they are bad for you, I know they cause cancer (what doesn’t?) and wrinkles…but…I love them. The ritual of smoking…sigh. I love having a lighter in my pocket. Something to do when I’m waiting for something so I don’t feel aimless. The companion to my coffee. Blowing smoke rings in the dark. That rough first drag in the morning. I love it all. I even like the smell of  cigarette smoke.  I can’t imagine coffee, or a beer, or a long phone call without a cigarette.

Hardly a politically correct view, I know. I don’t want my daughter to smoke. I wish no one would ever start again. If I had to go back, I wouldn’t. It’s so much more than a nicotine addiction. It’s a lifestyle choice, only you don’t really realize that you’re making that choice until it’s too late.

For me, and so many kids who start, I wanted the edge. I desperately wanted to be cool. I was a quirky teenager. I was far too kind to the kids I wasn’t supposed to be. I dressed how I felt comfortable and listened to the music I liked. Not the quickest way to popularity. The smokers were a welcoming group. People to stand with between classes, a shared interest to discuss. 

When I was sixteen, I dated a beautiful punk rock boy and smoked Lucky Strikes with him, my hair fire-engine red and my clothes black and silver. At 21, I smoked Benson & Hedges and drank Pinot Grigio, desperate for a dose of sophistication. Now, I smoke American Spirits because they taste good and drink Pabst or Merlot or Vodka with Root Beer and don’t care if it matches what my friends are drinking. Finally comfortable in my own (soon to be prematurely wrinkled) skin?