LIGHT UP MY LIFE
LIGHT UP MY
LIFE
... PLEASE!
by sonya hammond
I feel that I'm as environmentally aware as the next person ...
providing the next person isn't hooked on recycling egg cartons
into lamp bases [I will go to my planet-friendly cremation
convinced that it is possible to be ecologically responsible
without being tacky.]
OK, so I didn't throw myself in front of the garbage truck the time I absent-mindedly tossed plastic packaging stuff with the life span of Strom Thurmond in with my paper products. But I do separate my plastics from my biodegradables, I shun aerosols as persistently as I do Ross Perot interviews, and I bought a car guaranteed not to deplete the ozone layer with destructive air conditioning components.
None of these modest gestures, however, can rival my ultimate
sacrifice for the welfare of our planet when 2 years, 11 months,
23 days, 6 hours and 42 minutes ago I quit smoking.
I somewhat reluctantly admit that this self-inflicted penance,
which ranks right up there with wearing a hair shirt and other
sadistic rites, has had a few beneficial results.
I am now welcome in homes where my presence was once viewed with all the enthusiasm accorded someone suffering from a particularly virulent social disease.
I no longer endure the malignant glares of those saints who, having survived the ultimate in personal exorcisms, viewed me with self-righteous horror from the sanctity of their non-smoking sections.
And my doctor, having found life signs in my lungs, has quit showing me disgusting photographs of the ravages of emphysema.
In general everyone, with the possible exception of the tobacco company that manufactured my brand of cigarettes, has praised my successful victory over addiction.
For reasons perhaps his more articulate wife can offer, however, 'addiction' is not the word that Bob the Dull would use to describe my condition.
Apparently
he would consider my tearing desperately through the linings of
my handbags for errant tobacco droppings as the slightly
obsessive routine of a clean freak. 
Possibly he would view as exaggerated the expert
testimony regarding the depths to which I sank during those first
weeks of 'cold
turkey' panic, but
then he was never privileged, as were my appalled neighbors, to
spot me in my nightgown sneaking out in the dead of night to dig
in my trash for butts of any size or disgusting condition.
Senator Dull might even attempt to blame PMS for my murderous attacks on furniture when the uncontrollable urge to maim something overwhelmed me, although this might surprise male sufferers of the same obsession. It seems that none of these symptoms would, in his opinion, qualify as signs of 'addiction'.
Nicotine, the candidate-in-waiting points out solemnly, simply may not be 'good' for some people in the same way that 'milk may not be good for some people'. I suspect that several Surgeons General will struggle along with me over the logic of that theory.
It was, therefore, with considerable relief that I recently read of a study that may force the senator to invent another fairytale to pacify the tobacco lobby.
According to this new report, a portion of the brain that may be relevant to addiction reacts the same way to nicotine that it does to cocaine, heroin and 'other highly addictive drugs'. Since I have for many years had a close personal relationship with this area of my brain, I would like to go on record as subscribing to this theory. In my scientifically-based opinion it is obvious that anyone who, after almost three years of abstinence would still consider killing for a cigarette, is an addict of something.
I admit it. I am a Nicoholic who will
apparently wander pitifully through life ALWAYS craving just one
more fix. I seek out and inhale the second-hand smoke surrounding
perfect strangers who light up. I sniff the cigarette racks at
supermarkets under the suspicious frowns of bag boys.
Although I am a card-carrying member of the society of reformers who have banned smoking in their homes, I have no compunction about searching for butts some uncooperative guest might have left behind in a potted plant. In spite of dwindling numbers of nicotine sinners, I labor to include at least one closet smoker in my circle of friends. If the stuff ever becomes illegal, I may need a connect.
Several times a day I tell myself that just a couple of puffs a day wouldn't hurt, and 20 times a week my best friends, who have an endless list of depressing statistics on shortened life expectancies, remind me of the horrors of the initial withdrawal period when my desperate husband literally pleaded with me to start smoking again, and my dog begged the mailman to kidnap him.
I was assured by smug veteran converts that once I had rid myself of this disgusting habit my senses of smell and taste would return, any unwelcome weight gain would be far less hazardous to my health than tar-lined bronchial tubes, and rejuvenated lung power would enable me to leap tall mountains in a single bound.
These Pollyannas neglected to mention that heightened smell and taste would lead to the 20 new pounds that have settled on areas of my body that previously fit into my clothes, a development that makes any attempts at mountain-bounding improbable.
If,
as Mr. Dull maintains, I
was never addicted, I have no idea why nicotine deprivation was
and still is so difficult to live with, but I do try to console
myself with a few results that might be considered beneficial by
those who have never chewed through a No 2 pencil after digesting
the eraser.
In adding up previous cigarette expenditures, I come out sufficiently financially ahead in any given year to buy a reasonably priced new car. After almost 3 'clean' years, I own a surprising number of burn-free items of clothing, and neither these nor my house smell like a truckload of dirty ashtrays.
We who have reformed are ever alert to more creative ways of calming shattered nerves, if not completely compensating for unfulfilled craving.
The next time you spot an apparent lunatic shamelessly singing at the top of her lungs as she drives along the freeway, avoid hasty conclusions that she is several bananas short of a stalk. It is entirely possible that she is simply a rehabilitated smoker re-discovering her vocal chords along with the newly acquired breath to use them. Be tolerant of this relatively harmless substitute for a former destructive habit. Keep in mind that she is doing her part for the ozone layer, and be eternally grateful that her windows are rolled up.
Call me eccentric, call me pitiful, but, if you are a Republican, don't call me an addict.
©sonya hammond 1996