There are very few people who loved to smoke cigarettes as much as I did. Up until about four months ago, I had been a pack-a-day smoker since I was 15 years old. In other words, more than half my life. It was completely integrated into every aspect of my adult life, and I wasn’t sure how to function without them. The problem was, I was starting to not feel good. A pack-a-day had slowly crept into two packs per day, which meant I was spending a fair amount of my waking life puffing away.

I never quit because I never wanted to quit. I loved everything about smoking. I loved the first cigarette of the morning. I loved drinking and smoking cigarettes all night. I loved taking breaks in the workday, to smoke. For me, smoking became this very private, very personal reward system; an opportunity to go outside and have a little “me-time” every 45 minutes or so. I loved thinking about cigarettes, loved anticipating them, loved having one hanging off my lip.

There was another problem. Ten years ago, my dad was diagnosed with stage three terminal lung cancer. He had been a four-pack-per-day Marlboro smoker. He was one of the few that seems to have beaten such an advanced stage of cancer, but the effects on his health have still been horrible. He bears a scar from an incision that spans horizontally from the small of his back, to the middle of his chest. A sailor all his life, he never got a tattoo…until they marked his chest with three small tattooed dots, to mark the points of incision. My grandfather was less fortunate; he spent the last years of his life connected to an oxygen tank, shuffling around a condiminium in Pasadena, California, before finally succombing to emphysema. The idea that maybe I would be one of the lucky few that would myseteriously not get lung cancer, seemed pretty remote. It was almost a sure thing.

I had a couple of very, very halfhearted quitting attempts over the years, but never had any measurable success. And then a funny thing happened: I got married, and started planning to have a family. And all of a sudden, continuing to smoke cigarettes just started to feel, to put it as inelegantly as possible, like a real dick move.

All of a sudden, I had asked someone to make a commitment to me, for life. We talked about spawning more people, who would also be making that commitment, would be counting on me. The idea that I would ask people to love me, and then slowly cause myself to die a young, horrible death, seemed really selfish. I read Allen Carr’s Easyway Quitting Method, which is a great read, but ultimately quit using Chantix. I know that it has some mixed reviews, but it worked great for me. We can talk about that more another time.

I’ve finally gotten to the point where I’ve stopped thinking about cigarettes every waking moment of my life. I haven’t had a single, solitary puff in at least four months, maybe more, and I’m pretty sure I won’t. Jillian asked me yesterday if I had yet reached the point where cigarette smoke smelled disgusting to me, and without hesitation, I immediately replied: “Absolutely not.” I miss cigarettes mightily, and will always cherish the time we spent together. I wish I could have played it cooler with cigarettes, maybe had one once in a while, at a bar. Then, maybe I could still do that. But noOOoOOOooOo. I had to smoke 40 a day, and now I can never smoke again.

I would encourage everyone to smoke, a lot, and often, for a good few years of your life. Because it is absolutely wonderful. Know that ultimately though, you are going to have to make a descision. Unless your plan is to die reclusive and alone, someone that loves you is going to be made incredibly, incredibly sad by your behavior. They are going to have to watch, helpless, while some truly hideous medicine is practiced on you. How can you do that to someone you “love,” and to those who are counting on you the most?

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