Ever Since I Was a Little Girl, I Always Knew I Wanted to Smoke Cigarettes
you wanna join me for a conceptual smoke?
Ever since I was a little girl, I had always known I wanted to smoke cigarettes.
I’m writing this entry first on the water-stained page of an old pocket Leuchtturm1917 I snatched from my desk before lunch. I think it belonged to the former receptionist. Inside are a jumble of reminders for specific clients, notes for housekeepers and elevator repairmen, and a chaotic collection of phone numbers, some written over and over again. Its cover is worn and slightly frayed at the edges. Inside, the pages dry and yellowing, hold ink in deep blue and black. She clearly approached her job with a seriousness I lack. All I’ve contributed are a few doodles. That’s usually the order and manner in which I write.
Physical, then digital. Slovenly, then structured.
I can’t stop thinking about cigarettes. I’m not entirely sure why.
If my parents ask, I’ve never smoked a cigarette a day in my life. I don’t even know which side is meant to go in your mouth and which side is meant to light.
The truth is, I only smoke once in a blue moon. Three times a year. Four, tops. The mood needs to be precise. The stars aligned, someone offers, and most importantly, I need to be tipsy. An intoxicated cigarette doesn’t really count—especially if it’s from someone else’s own pocket. Scavenge, barter, bat an eyelash, whatever it takes. Never pay for your own cigarette. The night needs to carry a certain fervor and hint of possibility. That way, it escapes me that I'm all I’m doing is cozying up with a cancer stick.
In order to curb my desire to smoke, I figure it only makes sense that I write about it. When I want to make sense of something, I take it apart and examine piece by piece.
The Cultural Legacy of a Cigarette (Brief, I swear)
The use of cigarettes and cigars, primarily in the Golden Age of Hollywood, appealed to the average American seeking to emulate the lifestyles of their favorite stars.
Sophistication, sex, and non-conformity!
Barbara Stanwyck’s character in Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944) conspires a devious plot alongside an insurance salesman in order to cash in a life insurance payment. I found her to be the perfect woman.
She’s sexy, she smokes, and she’s ready to kill her husband!
In Casablanca (1942), Humphrey Bogart’s character also smokes, truly capturing his brooding and complicated nature. What better way to enhance the tension and intimacy of a scene than with a cigarette? After all, the man is torn between his love for a beautiful woman and (gasp) the loyalty of her husband. He needs something to take the edge off.
I would be remiss to disregard the optics of a cigarette. Ever since I was a kid, I found characters who smoked to convey traits such as individualism, independence, and adulthood. They were so tough, so mysterious, so sexually liberated, that I could feel it radiating from the screen or page. It's easy to see why children fashion makeshift cigarettes out of pencils, twigs, or oblong-shaped candy. They inhale and puff, briefly transforming into a moody, tortured character. Growing up, we even used to smoke Smarties! Although, I don’t think that one holds any cultural significance—I think it was just fun.
Sex and the City has experienced quite the renaissance lately. Since I began my binge-watching journey about a month and a half ago, I’ve managed to watch the entire series (and both films) twice over. In this completely healthy obsession, I've come to realize the indomitable spirit of Carrie Bradshaw has been subtly haunting me. If she was Pavlov, I was the helpless idiot dog.
Carrie’s persona as the quintessential fashionista and city girl is amplified by her habit of lighting up a cigarette at every given opportunity—even in places where it isn’t permitted. Busy writing? Cigarette. Stressed? Cigarette. Humiliated by Big for the millionth time? She’ll simply flick her lighter, hail a cab, and nonchalantly ride away in a (stunning) ensemble and absurdly priced heel, Marlboro Light in hand, as if the city were her stage. When she and Stanford share scenes in her apartment smoking, enjoying cocktails and commiserating over her latest love interest, or when she invites the girls over for beer and poker, it strangely evokes a strong desire for that exact social experience. It seems as though these moments are incomplete without the presence of a cigarette, adding a distinctive flair to their gatherings.
I love you, Carrie Bradshaw. Nicotine addiction and all, they could never make me hate you.
When I was younger, my dad drove a bright red taxi, which has since become a muted yellow.
He had a myriad of passengers who were smokers. On nights when my mom worked the night shift, my twin brother and I had to tag along with him. He often expressed his sorrow and concern for his clients who smoked, suggesting they were lost and virtually suicidal (never said explicitly; I think there's an unspoken aversion to such terms and notions for an African. It’s a God thing. The idea of giving up something that He’s given you feels unimaginable. It’s like refusing a carefully handcrafted gift from someone who spent hours and hours making it. It might falter at times and certainly isn't flawless, but turning it away is never an option). For him, it didn’t make sense to intentionally engage in something as harmful as smoking.
He had a regular that would smoke a pack a day, sometimes two. He reeked. Every time my dad would pick him up, I would dramatically cock my head to the side, roll down the window, and lean close as if I had never come in contact with fresh air.
After he left, my dad would pull out a can of Febreze from the glove compartment, paint the air, and remind us to pray for him.
If there’s anything that I’m a sucker for, it’s a good allegory.
I was able to uncover the root of this sudden fixation fairly quickly. I don’t want (or need) to start smoking. All I really want is a remedy for my mental unrest. A few chances each day to step outside, clear my mind, and take a breath. A break that no one would question because my (unfortunate) habit would be ubiquitously understood. It’s fine, she’ll be back in 5.
Every winter, I find myself helplessly drawn to a vice—something that feels like a warm embrace, offering solace from the cold, desolate feeling brought by the absent sun. Naturally, I figured my escape would come in the form of cigarettes, but it turns out they don’t fill that void.
Speaking from experience. I already tried a few weeks ago.
How to Smoke a Sober Cigarette
On the Upper East Side, women in blazers and men in ill-fitting suit pants hurry past, their faces a blur of ambition. An older Caribbean woman expertly maneuvers a stroller while wiping the nose of a noticeably overstimulated toddler as a group of teenagers, all wearing oversized denim and shaggy haircuts take photos and laugh. I’m pretty sure there’s a performing arts high school nearby.
This particular shift felt like the episode of iCarly where Miranda Cosgrove’s character agrees to “fake fight” Victoria Justice’s character, only to be met with a sucker punch to the nose. My spirit was dead, but only in the strangely specific way that comes from smiling at wealthy middle-aged women who have honed in and mastered the ability to literally look right past you.
I needed something high-calorie and fattening. I needed someone to slap me square across the face— something so powerful and precise, it could provide a factory reset. I needed God.
I needed to walk to the nearest train and head home. I needed to call my mom and expertly avoid saying the word "depressed," instead attributing how I felt to my undiagnosed PMDD, hoping she'd offer support that wasn’t just telling me to eat more flaxseed and cottage cheese.
I did none of those things.
I spotted a middle-aged man nearby. He was bald, wore a frumpy navy polo, matching navy pants, and a pair of comically large black work shoes. With one leg propped up, he casually leaned on the front of an idle MTA bus. Phone in one hand, cig in the other.
I decided instead to be big and bad. I decided what I needed was my first sober cigarette. I approached him, heart racing a bit.
“Excuse me,” I said, “do you have a cigarette?”
He looked at me, surprised.
“For who? You?”
“Yeah, me,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I do this all the time.
He blinked, taking in my slacks and cardigan.
I’ve always had an overactive imagination. In that moment, I allowed myself to think he thought I was an overwhelmed young analyst from the JPMorgan across the street. It’s my first week. I just graduated a few months ago and didn’t think I’d land this job. I’m way in over my head.
It’s possible. My slacks were pleated.
“A young girl like you smoking?”
“Just today.”
“Yeah? Promise?” he asked, reaching into his back pocket, with raised brows and a widening smirk reaching across his face. Older men love to do that thing where they try to get you to smile.
“Promise,” and I do. The idea of promising something to someone I would never see again made me laugh.
“I don’t feel it from you!” He jokingly retorts.
“Really! I’m making an exception today.” I said.
He hesitated but eventually pulled out a crumpled pack and handed me one.
“Alright. I believe you.”
I thank him and make my way down the block to an empty stoop as he yells back for me to smile. There it is! I light the cigarette, flame flickering in the warm air, and inhale.
Nothing happened.
No rush, no release. The itch I hoped it would scratch was very much still there.
The taste was terrible—bitter and acrid, it stuck to the tip of my tongue like a bad rumor. I suddenly remembered why these were only ever tolerable a few drinks in. I wasn’t numbing the taste with alcohol or drowning it out with loud music and laughter. I was just smoking a cigarette. Gross. lol.
The wind blew, carrying the smell of smoke, and I also remembered that smoking a cigarette is all fun and games until your clothes smell like you’ve smoked a cigarette.
Despite that, I finished it, convinced the physical ritual was enough to fill the void, even if it was just for a moment. My phone stayed in my pocket the entire time. I wasn't going to be lured and sidetracked by the little dopamine fiend. This was a moment between me and the cigarette I worked very hard for.
This cigarette was a means in the affair of my relaxation. I’m 25 years old, I have a cigarette in my hand and I am relaxing.
No one else in this fucking city is as relaxed as I am.
Instead, I watched. I watched people walking down the street, different logos and shed strands of hair caught on fabric. An intricate pattern of embroidery on a belt, a restaurant employee diligently stretching, and a delivery driver leaning across a white minivan, proudly showing his colleagues photos of his daughter.
I needed an anchor and to remind myself that I was real and very much present. Humanity passed me by the millisecond. It slipped through my fingers but I just couldn’t seem to catch any under my fingernails. I would stare at a face or distinct feature for so long, the person would notice and we momentarily would lock eyes. I buried my head between my legs a few times to really feel it, giggling at my one-woman show, my performance of Girl Who’s Having a Hard Time to a million disregarding spectators.
I felt like I was on the edge of something, waiting for it to change, even though I knew it wouldn’t.
I suppose all I wanted was for my small act of rebellion to mean something.
I gently pressed the lit butt against the concrete before tossing it into a nearby public trash can. I had to go back to work.
I wonder what my vice will be this year. Is it instinctual to give in to whatever siren song you’re lured to, or is this all just a grand failure of self-control?
What habit or indulgence do you find yourself helplessly falling into when the seasons shift, in an attempt to regain some sense of control? Is it the same for you every year?
If only my inclinations could align themselves with pursuits as heart-healthy and productive as rock climbing or running or meditation. Something as innocent as matcha. I have a friend who was borderline addicted to tea one winter. She claimed it was the only thing that helped calm her nerves. She drank a cup an hour. Carried around tea bags like a nut. Kept a thermos full of hot water in her bag. Peppermint, oolong, barley, vanilla chai.
I’m relieved I didn’t enjoy that cigarette.
A winter habit as addictive as smoking doesn't just vanish with the cold. Whatever I’m hooked on this year, I just hope it doesn’t drain my bank account like my last fixation did last winter.
What’s your vice?
I constantly say: ‘God, I need a smoke’ knowing damn well if I tried I would hate it lol
Hilarious, poignant. A bit of virtue signaling that u threw ur butt in the trash can and didn’t just flick it on the street like an Neanderthal but I’ll let it pass