Its all in my head part 1

I have quit smoking... again. Not that I have developed a habit that looms over me punishing every step I take with burning need, and want to subdue that need. No I am quite the trendy social "I like to smoke" fella that has one when he decides he will have one. Usually I employ this when I want to relate to coworkers and other smokers, or when I want two seconds to myself without looking like the wierdo who is just sitting there.

That is something that I miss most, sitting there but whatever. I do it from time to time, occasionally as that wierdo that just sits there.

But I have quit. I have decided that for the time being I will work on the spare tire that is developing around my middle and the first step is to get back in cardiovascular health.

This is why I have quit... again. Me and my body both know that this wont last, but we continue.

Instead of smoking I have developed another fixation: watching people smoke. Thru the big panes of glass that line the front of the store, I sit in the cafe and burn a hole in the backs of the heads of the people on the patio. I imagine the cigarette in their hands, the smoke entering their lungs, the pause (like the sudden stop in the ascent of a roller coaster) and the exhale (then its swift plummet). I am smoking, but not really. But the thought of it is taking me to the place where a smoke would take me, the dry scratchy throat that I cherished dousing with black bitter espresso not three years ago, the lucid aftermath of my chimney impersonation.

And while I was only a visitor to this exchange, I felt like a regular again. But this time I had no longer was limited to a cigarette. Why I could smoke a pipe, or a nice cigar. Shit I could probably smoke those benson and hedge's ultra light menthol 100's and imagine that they tasted like a quality corona, although I know they taste like a stale nappy breath mint mixed in with burnt napkins.

Yes my habit was alive and kicking again, only reinvented as a voyeuristic skylarking. I started to develop a mental scratchy throat. Sometimes I told myself I was winded from being on my feet all day. And when I didnt see anyone smoking, my brain would get surley and I would start to get agro. I needed to witness the act to get my fix.

Then I discovered the amazing publication that is Cigar Afficianado. No more staring out the window at random customers hoping they smoked quality stuff. Here was a mag that was nothing but the best of the best, classy people (sometimes) smoking high quality cubans, luchious brown expertly lit rothchilds, custom blended hand picked flakes of quality tobacoo rolled in tastefull thick paper with a gold trim.

I was smoking things I beyond my caste system. I was drunk off of depicted 12 year old scotch. Romanced by the fire lit dens with the amber glow of the of the dying fire as I polish off my port and marinate in the smoky aura around plush red leather.

I did this all throughout my shift, keeping a copy in my apron pocket. I imagined I smoked over a hundred cigars and handrolled cigarettes every day. Not only that, I downed so much high quality scotch in my mind I couldnt keep my imagination straight.

I was imagining hangovers. In the morning I would wake up headaches on my mind, every once in a while giving a thought to withdrawals.

This wasnt good, I thought my imaginary health was dwindling. So I needed to get to some medical advice.

So I went my Doctor. He ran some tests but they all came back fine. I told hime how I thought I felt and he refered me to one of his collegues.

"Your problem sounds made up to me. This is beyond my abilities to heal. Here is a card of a specialist I know in the area. She lives down the road from me. We have a tea-time every Wednesday. She is very bright, and she can help with you imaginary problem. Just make sure she gets her homework done before your appointment."