Case of the Ex

I used to be a smoker. I know, I know. It's nasty, disgusting, amoral, perverse, and will kill you. Well...that was kind of the point. I was never a heavy smoker, but there is no doubt that for 10 years (off and on) it was my favorite thing. Although the repetitive behavior of the physical aspect appealed greatly to my Type-A/anxious/OCD sensibilities, it was the social UN-acceptability that appealed to me most. I was reared to be reasonable, fair, and sensitive to the needs of others. I often take this instruction WAY too seriously, and the result has been a far-from-healthy inability to establish personal boundaries. The joy of smoking was that it was neither reasonable, fair (to my body, anyway), or sensitive to the needs of others. It was what I did for me, with no thought of the "other."

It's been a year and a half since I quit, and I miss it everyday. I liken it to the death of a close friend or lover. Over time it gets better, and you think of it less, but the emotional connection remains. I miss the way I felt engaging in the rebellion of doing something that a nice person, a spiritual person, a member of my sorority, a graduate of my undergraduate school, or a child of my parents shouldn't do. Each puff defied the norms of my social universe. I was transported away to a remote world where all the labels that I, or others, applied to myself no longer mattered. (Places like Siberia, Mars, or La Mirada, California.) With each drag, I breathed in recklessness and exhaled self-satisfaction. I was a rebel in my own twisted mind.

It ended because - for me - it was childish. And, at this point in my life, there is too much at stake to embrace a childish indulgence. However, I do still find myself reciting the ever-evolving eulogy of my fallen friend, and thinking of ways to reconstruct her, like a Parliament-Frankenstein.

Not long after I quit, I was walking with my sister and my husband through SoHo, where a woman was peddling her 15 year-old son's artwork on the street. My sister noticed a painting that she knew would have meaning to me. It was a lit cigarette with little hearts in place of the rising smoke. I bought it immediately, and have cherished it ever since. It was my prize for my great achievement of laying my friend to rest. I don't know what this young artist was feeling when he painted it, but he may know me better than most. Look how reluctantly the hearts leave the cigarette - how love is drawn begrudgingly, by the tail, away from its burning betrothed. It is amazing how tentative we are in abandoning our most deceitful lovers.