"I choreographed my life around my smokes, puffing away after every meal, taking a drag with a drink and blowing smoke rings as I wrote, usually late into the night. I needed no pretext for smoking, but found plenty; every occasion fit the bill. Oh, I loved smoking all right. I loved the cedar taste of tobacco, the earthy smell, the whole elaborate ritual."
"I knew inhaling nicotine down my throat and absorbing it in my bloodstream was bad for me, unhealthy in the extreme and potentially cancerous. Yet I had no plans to quit. Why would I? I was 24 years old and therefore invulnerable to bodily harm, my immortality guaranteed. Plus, I was stupid."
"Elvira and I got along well except for one catch: she hated my smoking. Hated it! She was so adamantly opposed to my 40-a-day habit that she forbade me to smoke in her presence. She even banned my smoking in my own apartment, banishing me to the sidewalk outside."
"Once, unforgettably, she told me straight out that kissing me was like licking the inside of an ashtray. That turned out to be the deciding factor for me. If my kisses disgusted my darling, surely our relationship was in jeopardy."
At eighteen, the narrator began smoking cigarettes in college and quickly escalated to two packs daily, integrating smoking into every aspect of his life. He enjoyed the sensory experience—the taste, smell, and visual rituals—and felt invulnerable to health risks despite knowing smoking was dangerous. For six years through college and into his first job, he maintained this habit while considering himself cool. His perspective shifted when he met Elvira, a sensible woman who strongly opposed smoking. She refused to let him smoke in her presence or apartment, and most significantly, told him that kissing him felt like licking an ashtray. This personal rejection proved more persuasive than any health warning in motivating change.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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