SMOKING AFTER SEX

You know the old joke:

Do you smoke after sex?
I don't know...I never looked.

Well, I can tell you that I have smoked after sex. Before sex. And, yes, even during sex; but, I'll spare you the details. The point is - and I hate even saying it - but I love smoking. There's nothing - nothing, I tell you - like that first morning cigarette. I wake up, put on the coffee, and while it brews I do my "mini-Yoga" session. Very heathly; right? And as soon as I'm done I head to the balcony (read: fire escape) with mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, and lighter at the ready. Remember that old cartoon with the old classical musical score playing as morning was breaking in the forest? That's the feeling. Ah! (By the way, if you can tell me the name, I'll send you a pickle; despite multiple searches, I couldn't find it. It seems my "Some-timer's Disease" has wiped my memory yet again. Either that, or the smoke is clouding my brain.)

For most smokers, a pack of cigarettes is like a best friend. It's always there for you. It makes you feel better when you're down. And it tells you that you look wonderful, even when you don't. And quitting feels just like losing that friend. It's absolutely horrible. Imagine being locked in a small (poorly decorated) room with your three worst enemies; just for shits and giggles, let's say that in our example you are confined along with Condoleeza Rice and her sourpuss, George W. Bush, and Carl Rove. All naked. Brrr! A terrible chill just ran down my spine as I typed that...And you know what? That doesn't even come close to describing the sheer horror and pain of the quitting process. The last time that I quit I would actually show up at work, give out the assignments to my staff, and then lock myself in the bathroom to cry. Whitney didn't have a thing compared to me; I was a wreck, I tell you.

And now it seems that the time may well be upon me to quit again. You see, Californians have the disgusting habit of being exceptionally healthy. They hike, bike, work out, and eat algae. And they don't smoke. At least, 83% of them don't. Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something. Or Mother Nature. If not her, certainly the cute boy I saw out and about the town Friday night was trying to tell me something. He was clearly flirting as I stood outside with my friends. And when I lit up a cigarette, he rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes! That is the gay kiss of death! That is like getting voted off the island, or fired by the Trumpinator. Truly, it was Heidi Klum saying, "You ah out." I even heard the dramatic drum beat. (Which is eerily similar to the one they use on "Lost.") That was it. Final. I was dismissed.

Now, as if that wasn't enough motivation, there is always the terrible medical reality that they just aren't good for you. I'm sure you already know this, but cigarettes have been linked with a terrible disease. The sort of thing people only whisper at dinner tables. You know, wrinkles. Now, that should give me some extra umph to quit; right?