Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I recently had an anniversary of sorts. On September 28th, 2001, after spending more than half my life as a smoker I finally gave up cigarettes.

Now, I haven't been perfect. There have been a few lapses, usually at a party or during a particularly busy time at work. Because the smoke bone, as we all know, is connected to both the drink bone and the stress bone.

And I still dream about smoking. I dream about pulling the little cellophane tab, opening up the top and removing the foil-covered paper releasing that first whiff of tobacco that promises both comfort and excitement.

But in the past 6 years, I've smoked maybe 30 cigarettes. And I'd switched brands to OPC (Other People's Cigarettes, for those of you who've never had this monkey on your back).

Because for all that I dream about it, I don't really have any desire to smoke anymore. Nor do I particularly have any nicotine cravings.

So I was bewildered on Thursday when I went to the grocery store, did my shopping, got to the checkout line and asked the clerk for a pack of Camels.

She went to get them while I stood there stunned, blinking at my unintended and purely reflexive request. I wanted to tell her, "Wait, I don't want those. I don't smoke." But I was too stupefied. And frankly a little embarassed to admit that I'd gone into some instinctual timewarp.

It would be like telling the waiter when he brings your ribeye, "I'm sorry, but I am a vegan."

So I put the cigarettes in my bag, hoping that the soy milk and organic kale wouldn't judge them too harshly on the walk home. I suddenly felt very protective of my twenty little friends.

I got home and put them in my sock drawer. I don't want to smoke them, but I don't want to throw them out, either.