This commercial scares me.
I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. Not one single puff. Although, I’ve inhaled enough second-hand smoke that claiming to have “never smoked a cigarette in my life” seems somehow misleading.
My step-dad smoked (smokes) two packs a day. I remember us driving home one night and he had to have a cigarette so bad that he rolled down all the windows, turned up the heat full blast, and lit up. The extreme combination of varying temperatures and cigarette smoke left quite a lasting impression. I don’t remember where we were, where we had been, or what we had done… but I will always remember that drive.
My beautiful older sister got caught up in drugs when she was a teenager. One night she stole my mom’s car and was thrown into a rehabilitation center. The next morning, as she spoke to my mom over the phone and I waited anxiously nearby, she said she didn’t want to talk to me. She was too embarrassed.
She called me ten minutes later.
When I finally got to visit, I hid two of my mom’s cigarettes in the bottom of a bag of candy and snuck them into her. And, I admit it… it made me feel cool.
When I was fourteen, I started stealing my parents cigarettes with some harebrained idea that if they thought I was smoking, I could use their worry and concern to negotiate a plan for us all to quit.
It didn’t work.
Then there’s The Husband. Also a smoker. (Go figure.)
He quit right after our honeymoon. One year later, as we sat in an airport bar waiting to board our flight to Florida where we would celebrate our first anniversary, he told me he had a confession to make. He had been lying to me. He had started smoking again three months ago.
I didn’t talk to him during the entire flight.
Smoking is bad, peeps. I’ve never done drugs either, but I’d smoke pot before a cigarette any day of the week. (I am so not endorsing drugs here, I swear.)
But trust me. Death and the silent treatment? Not worth it.