Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Health & Body

I am a smoker
I hate you, too.
By Carina Chocano
[02/08/00]

Column
Annie Sprinkle swims forward
A sex icon takes stock in the aftermath of her devastating houseboat fire and finds satisfaction as a mermaid.
By Virginia Vitzthum
[02/08/00]

Urge: Naked World
You'll never meet Mr. Right with your bed facing north
Can Chinese interior design turn a lonely bedroom into a lusty love nest? It worked for Karen. She moved her bed, painted the walls and met Mike.
By Hank Hyena
[02/07/00]

Smoke 'em if you've got 'em?
No one has studied casual smokers, but their risk level might be lower than expected.
By David McGuire
[02/07/00]

Urge
Love is just a moment
Forget about finding Mr. Right. Finding oneself is more exciting than romance. These celebrated feminists sound more like hosts of "The View" than sisters of the struggle.
By Cathy Young
[02/05/00]

Complete archives for Health & Body

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Perhaps the human spirit doesn't like imprisonment -- because that's what smoking is, a form of captivity. Perhaps humans are constantly struggling against the chains of addiction, and sometimes the human spirit prevails. I wish I could say our spirits always vanquish the darkness and lower ladders of freedom, but I know they don't. I've seen too many people slipping dangerously close to death who continually smoke and make excuses for their behavior. Perhaps their spirit gave up long ago; the tunnel just too dark and deep with not enough oxygen to support a flame.

I can see how that happens. Smoking has crept into my life in so many ways. It makes me feel like a writer -- not because nicotine alters my brain chemistry, but because I feel like a beatnik when I smoke. I have never worn a beret, worn only black or joined a writer's circle, but I did take up smoking. When I first moved to Chicago after college, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I would sit on the dirty old furniture at the neighborhood coffeehouse, and sip espresso and smoke cigarette after cigarette as I wrote in my journal. I like who I am when I smoke; I like the jittery sensation when I smoke too much; I love that I don't need to eat.

And when I smoke, I don't feel like doing anything else. Working out seems too arduous a task to even consider. Why spend hours pumping iron when I can sit on my deck and get the same stimulation while I read? Even sex begins to lose its appeal -- not quite, but it begins to get lost in a haze.

In college, my best friend and I would sit in our dorm room watching movies, camp out at Denny's for an all-nighter of studying or even just sit quietly on the white winter quad and smoke one cigarette after another. I don't understand why cigarette companies spend their advertising dollars on giant billboards portraying cowboys and cartoon camels. Westerns aren't cool anymore, and the camels may be a clever idea to entice kids, but what person between the ages of 13 and 80 really cares about them?

Cigarette companies should spend their advertising dollars on the experience of smoking, reinforcing the idea that smoking is their friend, that it makes them into people they wouldn't be if they didn't smoke. Cigarettes helped my friends and me bond; they actually strengthened our friendship, or they seemed to. Rather than cowboys and camels, I'd respond to an arty, black-and-white billboard showing a group of friends sitting around a table, talking and laughing with their coffee and cigarettes. Or imagine an advertising campaign designed to stop people from breaking their habit; a group of laughing friends standing around while a man with a patch on his arm watches from a distance -- alone.

When I thought about quitting this time, I felt like I was giving up a friend. The mere thought of abandoning my habit made me feel hollow and empty. And in truth, I did give up more than just the cigarettes; I also gave up all the people with whom I gossiped around the fountain during work hours. I was giving up all the discussions about how we -- smokers -- were the only group that it was still politically correct to discriminate against. We wore that discrimination like a badge of honor, but I couldn't help feeling ashamed as I walked into the office, the scent of stale smoke clinging to my clothes. And I noticed the others too, going into the restroom to wash their hands or spraying the mist into their mouths. We all knew it was disgusting, but that didn't mean we could quit.

It took me nearly six months this time, but the ladder was lowered, and I chose to use it. Things have reverted back to the way they were in my pre-smoking days. Roger and I are back to saying quick hellos in the hall. Lisa and I haven't had lunch since I quit. Sure, we can tell ourselves it's the holidays or that we're busy at work, but the truth is, I'm not in their club anymore. We don't have anything in common. I suppose I could stand out by the fountain with them and enjoy my breaks from work, butI didn't really need the breaks for rest; I needed them for smoking. It's too dangerous to be near them. It feels false. Eventually, I'll ask them for a cigarette. I'll think I've kicked the addiction and the whole mess will start again.

But have I really kicked this addiction, or have I just replaced it, splintered it up into a million subaddictions that can almost replace the thrill of nicotine? When I put down my last cigarette, the things that nicotine suppressed immediately came rushing back in to fill its cavernous wake. I eat much more food than I did as a smoker, or even before I became a smoker. Nothing seems to fill me up. My new favorite snacks are Triscuits with cream cheese. I can and do eat them one after the other until nearly the entire box is gone. I find that I focus not only on the hunger, but also on the texture of the crackers in my mouth, on the sensation of eating. My caffeine consumption has increased; I've started drinking hammerheads (two shots of espresso in a cup of coffee) for that extra kick.

I also work out more. I'm more focused on my workouts, and I leave the gym sore -- but drugged adequately. The endorphin rush that accompanies muscle breakdown is the closest approximation I can find to nicotine. In the past I've argued that I'm just more able to work out when I'm not smoking, that my lung capacity had increased. Now I see working out for what it is -- a stimulant.

Incidentally (or not so), I think about sex constantly, can't get enough. And if the real thing isn't available? Well let's just say that I've spent more on renting pornography in one week than I ever did on cigarettes in the same amount of time. Finally, worst of all, I'm drinking more than I did a month ago -- two or three drinks per night. It's a different buzz, but it's a buzz. So if I don't change my behavior yet again, I'll be an overweight, nonsmoking, sex-crazed lush. Thank God I had the strength to take that ladder.
salon.com | Feb. 8, 2000

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

  Get a printer-friendly version

  E-mail a friend about this article

  Backflip this article to find it again

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Search Salon