The Day My Youth Died.

Well it would appear that I’ve quit smoking cigarettes. It’s been 5 days and now that the physical symptoms of withdrawal have subsided, I consider myself a non-smoker; perhaps a premature affiliation, but one which I don’t plan on losing.

These painful few days have found me at nearly maximum levels of sappy nostalgia. My deep love for the cigarette (which is stronger than it has ever been) blossomed in the early months of 1996 in the most foolish fashion possible. I was trying hard to impress my brother and his friends, who for some reason had taken me; the awkward 16 year-old, on a voyage to Bull Moose Music in Brunswick. My love of music was in full swing, which in my aging opinion is the single most influential time in a person’s life. I plan on keeping an especially close eye on my children in those first couple of years when they start buying albums. It doesn’t take too many pages of linear notes to serious alter the good sense of any ‘child’ (those under 25). Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with how my early youth was spent, and up until Friday night was still partaking in the experience.

Back to that fateful drive to Brunswick: My brother had been smoking for several years by this time, and had made it look cooler than Joe Camel could ever hope to. He blew smoke rings, he spoke the lingo, he smoked in front of my parents, there was something about this habit that was undeniably cool. I was fishing for some laughs by making fun of the smoking style of a girl in my class who had recently started the habit. Without thinking I grabbed Geoff’s cigarette from his hand and put it between my lips, dragging a smoke plume of smoke and puffing it back out in imitation of that loser wannabe. He said something like “What the hell are you doing? Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew that you smoked!”. If they knew that I “smoked”?

I suddenly found myself in that cool jazz lounge with all the hot flappers like you see in the magazine ads, and Joe Camel was staring me in the eye with hope and admiration of my potential patronage. Within a week I was bumming GPC Menthol Lights (Gage Puke Choke) from my late friend Audra. I knew the difference between menthol and non-menthol, I could buy smokes at a certain store from a certain clerk, and I was getting pretty close to producing a true smoke ring. I was a smoker! What a fantastic feeling it was! Before long I had my own lighter, and kept a pack of dry butts under my mattress.

As the years wore on, I became a more refined connoisseur of tobacco, not to mention her exotic cousins. In college I finally settled on an edgy, unique, and distinguished brand; Parliament Lights (in a box, not a soft pack). For 8 years, I breathed the chalky heaven from North Carolina. In good times and great times, in bad times and terrible times, to celebrate and mourn, to relax and awake, I resorted to one of those little white tubes. They were a tangible influencer of my psyche.

A couple of years ago, it struck me that smoking cigarettes was embarrassing. Practically none of my friends smoke, Tia hadn’t smoked in years, the dogs didn’t smoke (that I know of…), and going outside regardless of the elements to get my fix was getting old. It was two weeks ago, that I finally said enough is enough and actually began to wean myself off of nicotine for the first time ever (and last time). I set a date – Tia’s Birthday, and I quit. My last smoke took place on the front porch in a solemn ceremony, followed by an honorable burial in the front yard. I’m not chewing gum, I’m not wearing a patch, I had a terrible weekend, but I’m getting through. My love which I reserve for tobacco will have to be invested elsewhere.