I miss smoking. I miss that first cigarette in the morning, when I can collect my thoughts between deep drags, surveying the weather, and hearing the refrains of Gioacchino Rossini’s “Call To The Cows” in my head. I miss the camaraderie with my co-workers, knowing all of the gossip, and breaking up the day into nicotine surrounded segments. I miss the cigarette right before a big meeting, gathering my forces and reviewing all of the possible iterations of personal interaction in my mind. I miss being able to push the pause button and mull things over, with a cigarette being the overt sign of my distraction and a clear indication to others that I am otherwise engaged. I miss that last cigarette of the night, reviewing the events of the day, reflecting on my successes and failures. I could wax on and on about the virtues I recall from smoking, but I think the character “Bebe” from “Frasier” said it best.
It’s been over two-and-a-half years since I quit smoking, and I still think about it every day. I can still feel how a cigarette felt between my fingers. I can still hear the smack of a new pack on my palm. And I can still taste those wisps of smoke traveling through my lungs and penetrating every fiber of my being. Why, oh why did I ever quit? Oh… yeah… because it makes me stink and will kill me.