Each morning, when The Husband drops me off at the train,
I walk through the gang of smokers clustered outside the station.
Unfortunately, there's no detour around them,
so I am forced to walk through the mushroom cloud.
They remind me of the kids in high school:
losers trying to look cool,
but failing miserably.
My knee-jerk reaction is to wrinkle my nose at the smell.
I don't smoke.
I never smoked.
Well ... I really shouldn't say that.
I tried it.
I was seven years old.
Yes, you read that right.
My best friend Yvonne and her sister Patricia
stole their dad's cigarettes.
Go big or go home, right?
We hid in the ditch and sparked one up.
Yvonne inhaled, coughed a little, but was OK.
Patricia inhaled, coughed a little, but was OK.
Now it's my turn.
Both my parents smoked.
You'd think there'd be some sort of gene passed down.
I took a drag,
thinking the entire time I looked pretty damn cool.
I inhaled ...
The coughing and hacking that took place afterwards
would have riled that of any emphysema sufferer.
I thought I was going to die.
So did Yvonne and Patricia.
They're pounding me on the back.
Giving me water.
Making me eat food.
Everything they could think of to keep me alive.
Eventually, the coughing fit passed.
Needless to say,
I never tried that again.