Ms. Law used much more restraint than I would. I too have tried all the gimmicks to quit smoking and I've quit dozens of times. I just can't seem to stay quit. Like Ms. Law I work very hard at not imposing my smoke on others. I have stood in a lot of rain and snow to smoke. The incident she describes is truly indicative of the absurd license that the self-righteous afford themselves. Makes me wonder what the wimpy dude does behind closed doors - drink to excess, harbor bigoted thoughts, beat his partner or children. His reaction to Ms. Law's smoking was more about his own sense of entitlement and power than it was about her smoking, which couldn't reach him through a sealed window.
I had a similar experience a few years back. I was smoking outside - not in anyone's path and near no children. A woman walked off the sidewalk, across the lawn to where I was perched and began to dress me down quite rudely. I quickly decided hers was a power trip, not a health campaign. You see, she was about the size of a small SUV. Watching her move toward me in layers to upbraid me about my unhealthy habit would have been comical except for her total sense of righteous indignation.
I wasn't nice. I pointed out to her that she would likely die of the extra 200 pounds she was toting around long before my secondhand smoke had any impact on her health. The silly woman sought my smoke by waddling over to me to give me her scolding.
ONE POLITE SMOKER TAKES ON THE ZEALOTS
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In the '50s, my mother started smoking at the recommendation of her doctor. Cigarettes, he told her, would calm her nerves and cure constipation. My father picked up the habit in World War II. I hated my parents' smoking and swore I'd never do something so disgusting.
In college I finally grasped how necessary smoking was. It was a time when brilliant, brooding professors lectured while holding unfiltered cigarettes in stained fingers, when girls wearing cashmere sweater sets gestured gracefully with extra-longs, when handsome fraternity boys clutched a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I wanted to know what they all knew, and for sure, I wanted one of those boys. So I practiced smoking, fighting through the phlegm-inducing learning process until I could inhale with cool perfection.
Although this new talent didn't make me broody or brilliant, did nothing for my wardrobe and didn't land me a fraternity boy, I discovered several side benefits: Smoking at parties gave me something to do besides stand around in mute discomfort. It made an excellent companion to drinking beer, another collegiate skill I acquired. Plus, the ability to hold toxic fumes in my lungs gave me a head start when it came to smoking dope at anti-war protests once I graduated.
When I finally decided to quit, I couldn't because smoking had carved deep, needy troughs in my brain. Over the years I've gone to countless cessation programs, psychiatric counseling, and group and individual hypnosis sessions. I've used every prescription drug, patch and inhaler. Without cigarettes as a constant companion, I plunge into an unrelieved state of despair and become a nonproductive harridan.
I got myself into this mess and, therefore, I accept my status as an addict and a pariah. But I'm also profoundly ticked off.
Let me make a few things clear. I believe that the men who ran the tobacco companies were evil because they lied about poison for profit. I believe that smoking cigarettes can make people sick and even cause death. I believe that kids should never take that first drag and that people who can quit should. Cigarette smoke is noxious in close quarters. (As I write this, my best friend is visiting for a week. She's also a smoker, as is my husband. In order to take deep breaths of clean air, we have to go outside in the rain.) It makes sense that smokers are confined to separate quarters in restaurants and bars or herded outside to parking lots and alleys.
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