So, I'm still smoke free. Congratulate me.
Something I've discovered about myself. It's not so much the nicotine or the smoke that I craved. It was the ritual of smoking itself that attracted me.
It was everything about actually doing it that I liked.
It starts with buying the pack. Knowing your brand. Being able to walk into your local Wawa, stepping up to the counter and asking for your brand. Anything else is unacceptable. No substitutions, no compromises. Ever. Even though 100 other people ask for that same pack of Marlboro Menthol Light Box a day, it was still something that was uniquely you. Your brand. Your flavor. Your style. You.
Once you pay, you can't even open your pack until you've prepared it. Packing your cigarettes by turning the pack on the butt end and slamming them against the counter repeatedly until you're satisfied. Maybe there's no counter space. The back of your wrist or the heel of your hand will do in a pinch. You've got to compact every bit of tobacco in those cigarettes, making every drag even more potent.
Then the unveiling. To peel the cellophane from the top of the box, you don't even have to look to see where the starter tab or the perforation is. You've done this a million times before. It's almost natural instinct. In that all too familiar circular motion you whip that plastic off the top and don't even hesitate to discard it. You flick the roof of the cardboard box open with the edge of your thumb. You rip out the foil keeping that magic fresh. Again discarded. You're so close. Nothing can stop you now.
You hold that pack to your bottom lip. You can feel the soft cotton of the filters pressed against your lips, packed so firmly in the box like 20 little class 'A' soldiers, all standing at attention. You draw your first whiff of the box. The menthol rises up your nose and fills the space behind your eyes. Mmm, they're fresh. Nothing worse than a stale smoke.
Your teeth, a precision instrument, select the first soldier to fall. They isolate a cigarette from the center of the pack and slide him out slowly. The ghost of James Dean is with you. He can see the slow cool forming at the tip of your lips. The box is closed and 19 soldiers are left standing.
You whip out your faithful Zippo from its place of keeping, the fifth pocket. He knows his job. He is the catalyst. All that came before was for not without him. A little flare is all he desires. You whip him open with the coolest of ease. Roll his striker and he's ready to go. You cock your head ever so slightly and take that first drag. That long slow drag. James would be proud. The smoke fills your lungs. A tingle passes through your body. Your muscles relax. The tension that's been building at the base of our neck begins to loosen. You feel light-headed. Almost dizzy. The nicotine flows through your body like a rushing flood. From your shoulders to the small of your back to your toes. You exhale and slam the zippo shut. You remember this feeling. It's been this good to you so many times before.
Damn, that was some good writing, huh? I'm making smoking sound like a supermarket romance novel. Cool. Shit I was on a roll.
Anyway, I smoked because it was something to do. I smoked at work because it got me away from my computer screen if only for a few minutes. When I smoked at home, I never smoked in the house because I never wanted my furniture to smell like an ashtray. I liked having the discipline of that rule. I would always smoke outside. I would always so out on my deck and smoke, though in the colder winter months, I've taking to smoking on my front steps.
Even smoking on the deck was a ritual. I had my favorite smoking deck chair I would sit in. I had an ashtray that i liked that I would empty every so often. Maybe I would choose to sit on my air conditioner. Maybe I would choose to lean over the rail of the deck. I would look up at the stars and contemplate the universe and everything else around me.
In summers I sit out on the deck with my guitar. I would use my zippo as a slide, sitting in my chair playing blues, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes all night. Those are some of my most relaxing times. Giving concerts for no one but myself.
When I'm deep in thought about work (whether it be professional or recreational work), sometimes my brain goes into overdrive. I need the smoke break to calm my mind down. The mild euphoria lets only a couple of thoughts seep through at a time. Not the standard hundreds, or even the thousands in overdrive mode. It allows me to slow down and actually let my brain process the thoughts it had. Kinda like speed reading. Yes, you just read this book in 12 minutes, but how much of it did you actually retain?
The biggest ritual for me was driving. My brain knows that the first thing I do after finding a good radio station is to light one up. I roll down the window a crack. Cigarette in left hand. Right hand on the wheel. When it's raining, the window is rolled up, and the cigarette switches hands, allowing me to put my ashes in the ashtray in my truck. I actually had to learn to drive with only my left hand so that I could smoke.
I even had special smokes for special occasions. I used to have clove cigarettes (Djarum) for parties and very long road trips. I've been smoking cloves since I was 16. I could rarely find them and I could sparsely get them then, so they were always reserved for special occasions.
Without the ritual of smoking, I feel kind of empty. Like, now what do I do? Without smoking, I don't really have an excuse to visit my deck and contemplate the universe. It's too cold for blues nights. How do I slow my brain down when I'm busy? What will I do when I need a break at work? Even driving, my brain wants to smoke because it knows that's always what it's done.
My biggest fear is the future. You already know I regressed at the bar last week. Well I'm going out to Kildare's this Friday and I'm debating whether to smoke or not. My brain just won't let me drink and not smoke. But a lot of people only smoke when they drink. Maybe it's ok. I don't know. It seems like if I only smoke when I'm out drinking, it's still an improvement. The question is, will I start to go out drinking more? Hehe.
Labels: Philosophizing