I'm sorry to say I'm addicted to cigarettes

ROSS RAIHALA, THE OLYMPIAN

I like to smoke.

And late last year, as my co-workers (and friends) Jim, Amy and Frieda were making plans to kick the habit, they asked me to join them.

I said no.

In fact, I proposed writing a column extolling the joys of smoking. "I may be a lot of things, but I'm no quitter," I said, only half joking.

You see, I'm not a typical smoker. Really.

Through high school and even college, I managed to avoid peer pressure and smoked no more than a pack of cigarettes -- total -- by the time I was 21.

As I got older and started hitting the bars with friends who smoked, I'd partake, even buying a random pack here and there.

I could chain-smoke all night at a tavern or a party, I'd boast to my friends, and never feel the urge to light up any other time. And if I didn't smoke for a week -- or a month -- I never knew the difference.

When I did smoke, I enjoyed it. And if I wasn't addicted by 25, I thought, I never would be.

The following year on a 10-day trip to London, I stayed with a friend who, like me, was an occasional smoker. We spent the entire vacation sleeping in late, drinking wine at lunch and staying out till all hours each night. And along the way, we smoked. And it was great.

When I returned home, I wanted to keep smoking.

Now, three years later at the age of 29, I can't imagine what it would be like to wake up and not smoke the first cigarette of the day. And the cigarette after breakfast ... and after lunch ... and after dinner. And I can't forget about those smoke breaks at work, the brief respites from the stress of the day when I can unwind over a quick Winston Ultra Light (or two).

Again, I like to smoke. I don't light up in my apartment or my car. My clothes don't smell like smoke -- or so I'd like to think. Cigarettes make me feel good. They calm me down, help me reflect and occasionally curb my appetite.

I can stop anytime I want to, I think, just before I have a mini-breakdown when it's 3 in the afternoon and I realize I'm out of cigarettes. I'm in control, I think, as I plunk down $33 for a carton of my beloved brand. I'm content, I think, to know that I've got 10 fresh packs waiting for me.

After all, I won't have to buy cigarettes for at least three weeks -- even if I know, deep down, that carton will be gone in 12, maybe 13, days.

Thus far, Jim, Amy and Frieda have kicked the habit. As I watched their faces, sometimes they looked content in the knowledge they did the right thing, other times they looked struck with a fear and panic that I know a cigarette would fix.

And that scared me.

It scared me to read the stories each week from smokers, ex-smokers and those attempting to make the treacherous journey from one to the other. It scared me to see my self-delusions shattered: I smoke ultra lights, I'm hardly getting any nicotine at all; I'm young, I don't have to worry about getting sick yet; It'll be easy for me to quit because I'm ... different.

If I've learned anything from these past six weeks, it's that I'm not different. Really.

I am addicted to cigarettes. And I don't like it.

Ross Raihala covers music and entertainment for The Olympian and can be reached at 754-5406 or OlyRoss@aol.com.

The Olympian Copyright 2000

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