The other day I passed by a store that had a big sign advertising cigarettes on sale for $8.50 per pack.
I nearly drove into the gutter. Times definitely have changed since I was young.
Immediately I thought about my boyfriend back when I was in the eighth grade. At that time, it was considered “cool” to smoke the minute you became a teenager. So he was a heavy smoker, as were most of his friends. His fashion statement in the summer was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt, so he always had a rectangular-shaped bump on his shoulder. And if he didn’t have time to finish a cigarette before going into a building, he’d snuff it out, tuck it behind his ear and save it for later.
He ended up with a lot of scorched sideburns that way.
Also, there were cigarette machines everywhere. Put in a quarter and out popped a pack. It didn’t matter if you were 62 or 12, anyone could buy cigarettes.
Fortunately, I never had any interest in smoking…and there were two good reasons for that.
First of all, when I was about four, I decided to pick up a lit cigarette my dad had momentarily left in the ashtray. I’d watched him smoke every day and he seemed to really enjoy it, so I figured I was missing out on a lot of fun.
I’d always thought that people smoking cigarettes looked as if they were sucking on drinking straws, so I put the cigarette up to my mouth and sucked hard on it, as if it were a straw. A huge puff of smoke went right down my throat.
I choked so hard, I was terrified I’d find my tonsils lying on the carpet.
And if that weren’t enough to turn me off to smoking for life, my fourth-grade teacher really clinched it for me.
Back then, full-sized candy bars and ice-cream bars were only a nickel each, so a dollar could buy 20 of the delicious treats. It also could buy 10 of my favorite Nancy and Sluggo comic books. That’s why I was more than just slightly upset when my teacher, Mrs. McCarthy, did what she did.
“For any of you who are thinking about smoking in the future,” she said one day as she stood at the front of the classroom, “I’m going to show you exactly what you’ll be doing.”
She then removed a crisp dollar bill from her purse and held it up for all of us to see. Twenty pairs of beady little eyes immediately became riveted on that money as visions of what we could buy with it filled our heads.
That’s when Mrs. McCarthy did the unthinkable. She removed a book of matches from her purse, struck one and calmly proceeded to set the dollar bill on fire (luckily, she didn’t trigger the sprinkler system).
She held up the bill until half of it had burned, then she walked over to the sink at the back of the room and doused it with water. Our mouths collectively fell open as we stared wide-eyed at her, certain that our recent rowdiness in class finally had sent her over the brink and she’d soon be taking a long and restful leave of absence.
“When you smoke,” she finally explained, “all you are doing is turning your money into a pile of ashes! You’ll have nothing at all to show for your money but ashes! Is that what you want?”
I vigorously shook my head. No, I wanted to turn my money into a pile of Three Musketeers bars…and maybe even a few Snickers.
I have to give Mrs. McCarthy credit, though. She really knew how to make a point.
But I really wished she’d have set fire to something else instead…like my recent math test.
And I’ll never forget the day, back when I was a senior in high school, when my friend Alice gave me a ride home from school. To my surprise, before she started the car, she took a cigarette out of her purse, lit it, and proceeded to smoke it. I’d never seen her smoke until then.
“When the heck did you start smoking?” I asked her.
“Today,” she said. “Last night, my new boyfriend (Haaccck! Cough! Choke!) told me he thinks girls who smoke look (Haaaack! Wheeze! Cough!) really sexy!”
Sexy wasn’t exactly the word I would have used to describe her as her complexion turned greenish-gray and every time she breathed, she sounded like a motorcycle that was having trouble starting.
Even worse, only two months later, her boyfriend broke up with her. But by then, she was so addicted to cigarettes, she couldn’t quit.
To my dismay, my late husband also was one of those guys who'd started smoking back when he was in his early teens. After we were married, I threw a lot of hints for him to quit, but if I had gone outside and talked to a pine tree instead, the results would have been about the same.
However, something finally happened one day that miraculously made him quit. It was as if a divine power from above looked down upon him that morning and said, “Okay, big guy…today is the day you will be smoking your final cigarette.”
That afternoon, were on our way to meet friends for dinner at a restaurant in Manchester and were dressed in our dinner finery, which was mostly polyester. As we drove down the highway, my husband lit a cigarette and then immediately dropped it. He felt around, searching for it, but couldn’t find it, as I gently reminded him (a.k.a. screamed at him) to keep his eyes on the road.
I also tried to find the cigarette, but I couldn’t see it anywhere either, so I figured it probably had fallen onto the floor and then rolled underneath the seat.
Sighing in defeat, my husband finally pulled the car over to the side of the road so he could do a proper search.
Within seconds, however, he jumped out and launched into an impressive impersonation of a male exotic dancer – wiggling his hips and grabbing his crotch.
I actually was enjoying the impromptu performance until he nearly got flattened by an 18-wheeler.
That was when I noticed the cigarette lying on his car seat. It apparently had fallen between his legs when he’d dropped it. Later, upon further inspection, we discovered it quickly had melted a hole in the crotch of his brand new, forest-green, polyester pants.
He never smoked again after that.
And he never bought another pair of polyester pants.
In my opinion, it was a double victory.
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
