A Farewell to Butts

Relax, Tina Belcher - not the human kind!

Photo by Wolfgang Rottmann on Unsplash

I was sitting at a small iron table in the mild sunshine, on a cobblestone street outside the Café Mozart in Passau, Germany, nursing a teacup of shimmering, rich coffee as the Danube flowed blue in the distance. Surely strains of the waltz emanated from up the high riverbanks, near the palace where I went to school.

It would have been 2004. I'd be wearing white boot-cut trousers from C&A, a tight black V-neck sweater from H&M, and a pair of pointy nude kitten heels from a small and impossibly chic leather-goods boutique.

And as I sipped my coffee and flicked through my issue of Hello! magazine, I was smoking.

Put plainly, I was sophisticated as fuck.

And that's how I want to remember smoking. The truth is, it hasn't been that way in a long time.

***

I'm quitting smoking tomorrow. It's time. It's just time. And I'm shocked to hear myself say it.

See, the thing is, I love smoking.

I don't feel shackled to it. I don't feel inhibited or limited or held prisoner by my addiction. I enjoy it! But, as with most material things I enjoy - cigarettes, alcohol, chocolate - my brain has a hard time convincing me when enough is enough.

When I quit drinking, back in 2011, I felt much the same. That tiny little cup of coffee at the German cafe could easily have been a glass of merlot. I do remember a certain party in Rome, on a hotel rooftop, when I stood there in a black halter dress, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, thrilled, but trying my best to channel a dry, Continental ennui as I leaned over the terrace, looking down on the Campo de’ Fiori. Again, I felt terribly, terribly chic. And maybe I was.

But despite the bubbly and beautiful way alcohol made me feel, it became obvious that drinking wasn't working for me anymore. In fact, I was an alcoholic. And I was able to set it down, if only by promising myself that I could start again if I came down with a certainly-fatal disease, or when I become Officially Old (a specific age I have in mind, but which I will not mention for politeness’ sake).

And now, smoking's not working, either. Any confidence or glamor that I feel is seriously compromised by having to stop at a gas station every single day, hoping my brand is there, trying not to notice the other things that money could be doing, or, once I have the cigarettes, having to constantly go in and out between 100° heat and blessed air conditioning.

No wonder I obsessively track every day’s temperature, while Dave remains mostly unaware of any notable heat wave. He's inside all day, like a sane person.

Being sweaty and red-faced, with ashtray breath and too much perfume, is a far cry from the crisp, elegant silhouette I cut in Rome or Munich.

And no, I don't have any scary diagnosis to prompt this decision. It's just that:

• It's inconvenient

• It's expensive

• It makes my clothes and hair smell worse than I think

• It might be keeping me from successfully carrying a pregnancy to term

• I'm too smart for this

That last one: that's the kicker.

***

I was never afraid of lung cancer or anything like that. The smokers in my family never developed it. That comforted me for years, until I suddenly wondered if they simply hadn't lived long enough.

I dimly remember my grandfather causing a small fire by lighting a cigarette while his oxygen tank was in use. No, he didn't have lung cancer; he had emphysema.

Well, I don't want that either.

***

So yeah, I'm out. But I'm going out in style. On Tuesday, I defied my painful, messed-up arm by driving four hours’ round trip to the first town over the Arizona state line - the thriving metropolis of Parker - to purchase my beloved Marlboro Menthol Lights, which are illegal to sell in California. I bought enough to last me, I guessed, through today. And they will be the last cigarettes I buy. If I have to stay up till 3:00 in the morning finishing them, those minty beauties will disappear, and with them, this gross habit.

On Friday, I won't feel well. I expect to be cranky, indignant, and utterly unproductive. I expect to rant and rave to poor David about the unfairness of it all. I expect to have the energy of a sloth in a coma, and to be about as pleasant to live with.

David has agreed this risk is worth it.

And I'll be sharing my progress with you here in regular updates. I know you all will help me stay accountable, because much of what I say while in withdrawal won't reflect reality. I still want to quit - I still will quit - even if, for a day or few, I resent the hell out of it.

So raise a glass with me (mine's just water!) to the elegance of days gone by - picturesque and poisonous; graceful and grim. We know better now. I know better now.

But once I'm old, of course, or if I'm diagnosed with a case of Advanced Idiopathic Imminent Death Syndrome, if it's still important to me, all bets are off.