Smoke Free (It's a Long One, Beware!)

I have been waiting for some significant downtime all week in order to write out my "Mendoza Death Trip" experience (a la Michael Lesy), but now that I find myself in front of the computer with nowhere to go I realize that it will have to wait. Because at the moment, there is only one thing on my mind...

I am a smoker. I am a nicotine addict. For last 4 years, I have been avoiding this concession. I have been checking the little "no" box at doctor's offices, hiding cigarettes in my underwear drawer, and spouting all sorts of excuses to myself and others about why I need "just this one." Compared to many smokers, I am a lightweight: I have never smoked more than 3 cigarettes in a single day. But since I started smoking the occasional cigarette over 4 years ago, I have had thousands and quite frankly, it is time to stop lying to myself. So there it is: I am a smoker and its finally time to quit.

I know that reading this blog entry will make many people in my life very disappointed in me. Yet I believe that in order to be successful, I need to start this difficult journey from an honest place.

In an effort to gird myself against the tragic difficulties of quitting, I have prepared some visual aids: a calendar where I can track when and how much I smoke everyday; 3 copies of a picture of a damaged lung- oozing black tar- for my mirror, ashtray, and calendar; a list of 101 stress-relieving activities; about.com's article on triggers and craving-kickers; and my own personal list of reasons to quit (on 16 post-its stuck all over the house). Yet I know that all this is only a crutch for my enfeebled mind, which will crave cigarettes regardless of my most intellectual efforts to dissuade it.

Now, the real catch is my location. I am choosing to quit smoking in South America, where 11 year olds buy cigarettes to smoke with their pudding cups, where butts litter the ground even in the most remote mountains, where the antiquated practice of smoking indoors is still roundly embraced and many people offer you a cigarette upon introduction, just as a social nicety. I often feel like I've been thrown into an episode of Mad Men . Forget avoiding smokers while you ween yourself off, here it is impossible to go one minute without cigarettes crowding your consciousness.

Ironically, it is the ubiquitousness of cigarettes in Argentina that has made me determined to quit. In nice, clean, organized United States, there is something about joining the elite determination of the smokers outside on a winter day, that makes smoking feel satisfyingly subversive. But here, where smoking is so openly accepted and indiscriminately encouraged, the sinister realities of smoking are incredibly in-your-face.

As I light up on my balcony, I can look down into the courtyard and witness the sea of butts littering the grass amid the vibrant rose bushes. From an unseen balcony in my neighborhood, I can hear the rattling hack of a long-time smoker. On the corner, I can see the listless group of teenagers, barely old enough to have breasts to fill out their tank tops, casually sharing a smoke. In every park, plaza, and promenade smokers stroll with cigarette in hand and carelessly toss their butts into the classical fountains, manicured lawns, and elaborate street murals. Medical clinics teem with withered grandmothers leaning on their portable oxygen tanks. And the young always look old beyond their years- heart-breakingly gorgeous girls of 16 or 18 with deep lines already carved around their mouths, wrinkling the corners of their wide, innocent eyes.

Confronted with smoking on such a large scale, amid the daily tragedies, there can be no doubt: I cannot justify this any longer. So I've decided to examine the reasons behind my addiction, both in an effort to channel my energy into a more healthy response to triggers and also perhaps in order to better understand the psyche of smoke-obsessed Argentina.

I smoke because:

I think it calms me down when I am upset. I have trained myself to stop crying, stop fighting, and stop panicking when I have a cigarette. Whenever I feel out of control, I automatically turn to smoking.

I think it helps me be creative. In university, when I routinely wrote 2-4 analytical treatises per week, I started smoking cigarettes to concentrate and clarify my thought process. This was partially a self-fulfilling prophecy: when I first declared my major an upperclassmen told me that all English majors start smoking by the end of their second year.

Many of my friends smoke, and all of my boyfriends. I have never dated a man who didn't smoke. I never had a list of "deal-breakers" and so I accepted my partner's smoking as part of the man. But spending so much intimate time with a smoker desensitizes you to the unseemly effects of smoking- bad breath, smelly clothes etc. I don't know why so many of my friends smoke, but I have noticed a disproportionate tendency towards smoking in my friends who work or study in the arts. And I have always been attracted to artists.

Smoking makes me feel more confident. This is an old excuse that I have never admitted to before. But I often feel that my hands reveal my insecurity more than any other part of my anatomy. When I feel uncomfortable, my hands have an embarrassing tendency to fidget or (too often) knock things over.

Finally, I am self-destructive. I often feel that I deserve to be hurt because I am a bad person, or I have failed in some way. Smoking is that little bit of daily destruction that makes me feel like I have punished myself for my failures and I can now try again. Yes, this is supremely messed up.

In all of these illuminating and deeply personal reasons for smoking, I can see something of the Argentine mindset reflected:

In my experience, it is difficult to get things done here, and often the frustration of many small failures or endless waiting feels overwhelming. I see more people smoking outside of government offices, the post office, and at bus stops for example. The endless waiting is just one big excuse for a smoke break.

Argentinians love to talk. They love to discuss difficult issues and stay up until the wee hours of the morning espousing about art, music, politics, and more. They idealize the word pasion and almost everyone I've met has asked me: what is your passion in life? In their hearts, they are incredibly creative and smoking cigarettes seems to feed this endless discussion and make everyone more willing to speak their mind; reveal their pasion.

Everyone smokes. Parents, children, lovers, friends, bosses, delivery drivers. It is constantly around you, and so the stigma is removed.

Finally, Argentinians harbor a spirit of competition with more developed countries. They despise the phrase "third-world" and they believe that they have a lot to offer the international community. Yet the ongoing economic instability, government upheaval, and geographical isolation of Argentina make many feel a little insecure about their country's place in the world. Perhaps this national insecurity contributes to a nation of smokers who just need something to do with their hands?

While I may feel some affinity with the huge Marlboro ad that is Argentina, I recognize that like so many bad habits in the world at large, change can only come one person at a time. And so I am giving up my cigarettes and challenging myself to face my triggers with a new heart. Hopefully, in the process of quitting I have started to gain a new understanding of myself and the hazy world around me.

** I want to quit naturally, which is, of course, the hardest path. But I would welcome any suggestions for natural aids that you have tried, heard of, or come across while randomly searching online. I also welcome condemnation from any local friends who catch me smoking from this point on.