Smoker’s Dilemma

I’ve been a smoker since age 16, when I gingerly coughed my way through my first Marlboro outside a bar in Spain. To be honest, I’ve only been a real smoker since age 18, when I first got up the nerve to actually inhale the smoke into my lungs. So technically I’ve been a smoker for 6 years. I’ve tried halfheartedly to quit a few times, mostly after art school, where smoking was pretty much a required course. I tried Wellbutrin for awhile, which effectively stopped me from smoking. It also had the nifty side benefits of stopping me from eating and hating myself, which was spectacular. On the downside, however, it also stopped me from sleeping. And while being skinny, pleasantly-scented and perky may be attractive to a man, not being able to tie your shoes properly or subtract simple sums…not so much.

Ok, round two. Emphesyma vs. self control. Unfortunately, my self control has been my frienemy ever since I discovered the joys of comfort eating at age 15, the blissful narcotizing effects of weed at age 17, and the Andrew W.K.-esque ‘Masters of the Universe’ power of cocaine at age 20. So lately in the cigarette deathmatch, my lack of willpower has won out in smug totality. Not for lack of trying, however. I quit cold turkey for 6 hacking-cough-free months when I started dating a sweet, wounded man with a daughter with throat cancer. Apparently guilt works a lot better than Wellbutrin.

After I stopped dating the guy, the guilt went away and the smoking came back. An old woman outside of a CVS gave me a lecture on how her daughter-in-law is dying of lung cancer. It didn’t effect me much because I’m a terrible human being and since I’m off the Wellbutrin, the idea of dying young doesn’t really bother me. Inside the CVS the woman behind the counter sells me a pack. She’s breathing through a tube. I feel terrible for asking her for cigarettes, until I see her outside a few minutes later, lighting up. Then I don’t know whether to feel better, or worse.

My last option for quitting smoking is this new medicine called Chantix. A friend of mine swears it works like a miracle. She says that when you smoke, nothing happens. It’s like inhaling air, therefore you can’t get your nicotine fix. Problem solved. However, everytime I light up in front of her she gives me this long, yearning look. I’m not sure I trust her assessment of this wonder drug. I’ll have to try it myself, but my brain is rebelling. I can’t lie. I just love smoking. Maybe Chantix works, maybe not. Maybe I’ll try it and be cured. But for now, the desire just isn’t there.
I’ll let you know in a month or so what I decide. Don’t hold your breath.