Smokey and the Baby

Thirty years ago I smoked, and I liked it. I liked everything about it. I loved opening a new pack of Marlboro Lights, and smelling the fresh tobacco. Pulling that first cigarette out, putting it between my lips, and striking that match gave me a thrill. Slowly moving the flame towards the cigarette, and gently sucking in so that it barely touched the tip, turning the end of it a glowing red, was supreme joy. At that time I worked at Great Lakes Naval Base, maintaining the small Burroughs computer system there. While I couldn't smoke inside the computer room, a large ash tray was set just outside the door, in the large common office space. I would sit out there at least twice an hour gabbing with the secretary, smoking my Marlboros, leaving a large blue cloud hanging over her desk. The fact that she was pregnant never bothered me. Back in 1981 people weren't all freaked out by second hand smoke, and really, wasn't the baby all protected, being inside its mother and all?

Now in 2011 we all know differently, cigarette smoke isn't innocuous. It does affect a fetus, and on top of that it smells bad on mommy's clothes. These days you can't smoke anywhere, even in your own home in some cases. I know that I write it into my tenant's leases, no smoking, and put it in the ad when I need to rent out an apartment. Down the street from me is a very nice woman, who is addicted to cigarettes, and even though she isn't allowed to smoke in her apartment, every day I walk by and see her arm hanging out the door with a lit cigarette dangling from her hand. I have to give her credit, she technically isn't smoking in the house. I just wonder where she exhales. I, myself, quit smoking twenty seven years ago. It had nothing to do with the smell, the mess, or even the health issues. I quit because they raised the price to a dollar, fifty. I still miss it to this day.