Pesky Little Smokes

This afternoon, I go to a corner store in my neighborhood. I often go there for small provisions-gum, bananas, the occasional bag of chips, and, more than I'd like to admit lately, packs of cigarettes. I've been trying to steer away from buying those damn things the last few weeks, and have gone long periods of time without smoking, but inevitably I am always sucked back into the nasty habit. My latest excuse: I'm going through a transition period. I'll quit when I need to.

And it's true, I can quit when I want to. My will power is that good. But usually it takes an internal argument, or several hundred of them, to convince myself that, like a boyfriend who is not good for me but who I refuse to let go of, I just don't need this shit in my life.

On this particular sunny Tuesday when I visit the "pantry," the nice Indian man who I see from time to time, asks me, what do you do? You're not a nurse are you? Puzzled why he would infer that, I ask him to justify this question. He smiles as he surveys me harmlessly behind his fluorescent tortoise-shelled glasses and replies, lots of nurses smoke. And maybe it's true, one of my dearest friends is a midwife, and she smokes. 

He goes on to tell me that for a time when he lived in London and was young-in his twenties or thirties I suppose, he smoked for several years, but one day just gave it up. He says that he was reading a magazine, ready to have a relaxing day and smoke some cigarettes, when it dawned on him: he has nobody, and who will take care of him when he is old and sick from lung cancer? Secretly, I shutter, but I smile back and casually ask, so it was just like that? You never looked back? Never, he says. 

We talk of his wife, and how she smokes and he hates it, but he loves her, what can he do? I tell him I am a college teacher and a writer. What do I write, he asks me. I write about...let's see, well I write about fitness (I've recently taken a gig for an activities website, whereby I account on my extensive background in high endurance activities, dancing, triathlons, etc.). But then, suddenly I feel like a fool. Who writes about fitness, and smokes? But then, who goes to nursing school and smokes, apparently lots of people.

Eventually, I thank him for this chat, tell him to have a nice day, and walk home. Then I light up a cigarette on my landing. It's refreshing, as I haven't smoked in a while (meaning since last night), but it also comes with a price: guilt. And I think of the old pantry man. Do I have anyone who will take care of me if I get sick from tarred lungs? Who knows, my family loves me, but maybe they will be gone by the time I'm suffering. 

Times like this in life, when we come up against pleasure versus health, perplex me. I have no answers. I know that I like smoking. For whatever reason that I began as a teenager years ago, I've always been drawn to it. Does it make me edgy? Does it genuinely relax me? Maybe I do it because I'm bored. I work in the bar industry. I'm a writer. That makes it okay. As long as I have other people around me who are killing themselves too, it's okay. Right? 

I guess the problem is that life presents us with no guarantees. We just have to make the best decisions that we can as we bump along. Smoking does help me relax if I am stressed at times, but it does come with a price. I guess everything that feels good comes with a price. I'd love to be that person who lives by an affirmation I once read on my desktop calendar: why put off until tomorrow what could be accomplished today? It's true, why. But I'm not god. Today, I like smoking. 

I'll quit...maybe tomorrow I'll put that on my list of things to do.