Up in Smoke

October 21st is coming fast, and it's a big day for me... a celebration of three momentous occassions. These are, in order:

1) The 44th anniversary of my birth.

2) The 28th anniversary of my first cigarette, bummed off my best friend (and still the champ-eeen smoke ring blower of the universe), in a London pub.

3) The 1st anniversary of me running, not because I'm being chased by a dog or I'm late for a plane, but because I have somehow come to the conclusion that it's good for me.

Now, I can't take much credit for the first one. My mother, after all, did the heavy lifting.

Numbers 2 and 3, though, are all mine... the product of my choices. And what seemingly contradictory choices they are. Except... they're not. I started smoking and running for exactly the same reason. I wanted to be cooler than I thought I was, and my birthday seemed like a good day to reinvent myself.

And they have something else in common, too. I really REALLY enjoy them both.

When I started running, it took me about 6 weeks to be able to run one mile without crying, turning purple, or throwing up. (Coincidentally, when I started smoking, I had almost the exact same learning curve on being able to finish a cigarette.)

Breathing was such a painful experience during those first few runs that you'd think it would have turned me against my Marlboro fixation.

But with my first cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, or (dare I say it) after a long run, nothing tastes, feels, or smells better to me than a long drag on a smokey treat.

In my 28 years of smoking, I have been unwavering in my worship of the cigarette -- from the ritual of unwrapping the pack, to the silky feel of the smoke in my mouth, to the ridiculous party tricks I've learned, like popping smoke rings and french inhaling.

The only thing that has changed is that I no longer think it makes me look cool. In fact, I think I look so UN-cool that I sometimes pretend I'm a non-smoker when I'm around people that don't know me well.

And now, it's not just about me and what I want anymore... there's my son to consider, too. He's 12... and they've learned in school that smoking kills you. He wants his mother to live, at least for now... puberty hasn't kicked in yet. And I want to be the kind of mother that is "do as I do" rather than "do as I say."

So... I see the writing on the wall, as clear as I can read the writing on the side of my pack of Marlboro Ultra Light 100s... smoking kills. And I like birthdays.

I have promised my son that by Christmas of this year, I will have become a non-smoker. Which means I only have a few more months to prefect my smoke-rings... I better run and get busy.