I didn’t attempt smoking again for another ten years. My biggest fear wasn’t cancer or bad breath. It was more a fear of the first time I would actually inhale. We’ve all seen it in countless "very special episodes" of Whose Sister Sister is the Boss of this Full House’s Family Matters. Little Eddie gives in to peer-pressure and smokes his first cigarette... then proceeds to hack up a lung in front of the very people he is so desperately trying to impress. I was not going to be that guy. I politely declined throughout highschool and most of my first year of college until finally, one night I decided it was time.

I was at the Boston airport for a group project (hazing ritual). My buddy, Rita was the only one of us who smoked. I was always the faithful friend, joining her outside in the winter air whenever she needed a butt. She would always ask if I wanted one, even though she knew I would politely decline. But on this night, I told her that I was ready. She started me off easy. We shared her cigarette. I wasn’t ashamed to ask Rita very bluntly, "How do I do it?" She didn’t make me feel stupid as she explained to me not to inhale directly from the cigarette: "First suck the smoke into your mouth. Take the cigarette out. Now inhale." Good old Rita. I was an instant pro. I didn’t cough or choke once. I just enjoyed the pleasant buzz that flowed over my body.

People laugh when I tell them that I used to be a smoker, and that at my worst, I was averaging about half a pack a week. I was definitely just a social smoker. Okay, I was a mooch. In the five years since that first time, I have only bought two packs of cigarettes for myself. The rest, I bummed. Luckily, at first I didn’t hang out with too many potential suppliers. I averaged about one cigarette every two weeks. My per-week average grew as I surrounded myself with more smokers.

The first pack I bought for myself was in Boston. A group of us were out at a bar. I was still 20 and was in on a fake ID. I decided that I wanted a cigarette, but none my friends that night were regular smokers. So my friend Tara and I left the bar and walked across the street to buy a pack. By the end of the night we had smoked half the pack between the two of us. I felt so nauseated by that many cigarettes in one night that I swore it all off for a couple weeks – and promptly threw the rest of the pack away.

My lowest moment came one month after graduating from college. I was shooting pool with some buddies of mine on the same night that Camel was having a big promotion. They were giving away free packs of cigarettes. I figured, hell if I’m gonna get a free pack, I’m really gonna smoke. I got myself a pack of Camel Reds, which contain just about the deadliest crap that anybody could willingly decide to put into their bodies. The first time I had smoked one of these my freshman year, I had to crawl back up the stairs, my buzz was so strong. But, on this night, I smoked most of the pack myself. The next morning, I could barely speak.

I swore it all off again and remained smoke-free for several months. Living in Los Angeles I found myself, once again surrounded by smokers and once again, I bummed a cigarette here and there. I bought the second pack of my life, which I kept in my kitchen drawer. It was basically there for those nights when I needed a quick fix. Bought in January of 2000, the pack still had a two or three biscuits left when I moved back east in November. With the exception of a couple moments of indiscretion, I have remained steadfast in my commitment to no more smoking. Although, who can say if it’s really a commitment. All of my good smoker friends live out of state.

As a kid, smoking was something that seemed cool, so I figured I would try it – even if I had no idea what the hell I was doing. It was in the genes to get addicted. Both sides of the family were full of people who had smoked for years. Somehow I managed to escape getting hooked. Mostly, I think it was because I couldn’t stand the way my mouth, my lungs, my whole freaking body felt after a night of heavy smoking. Nor could I fathom the need to take a drag on a cold day while nursing a sore throat. Whatever the reasons, smoking is something that I have nice and not-so-nice memories of. I was taught the right way to smoke by a good friend. I smoked with many more good friends – most of whom have scattered to the wind like ashes. The air I breathe now is clean. Sometimes it seems too clean. The absence of heavy smoke reminds me of too many old friends, and the relationships that we forged through a thick tobacco haze.