Thank You For Not Smoking
Owing to the facts that it’s 3 degrees below zero outside and that I’m one heckuva nice guy, I went out to start my teenage daughter’s car for her this AM. Aw, ain’t I nice?
So while I’m in her car, what do I happen to find sitting in the front console? Half of a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Swell.
Now, technically Miss Katie is 18, so if she wants to smoke, she’s perfectly entitled to. God Bless America, Praise the Lord and pass the Camels. But smoking? That’s one habit she doesn’t need in her life right now.
I’m really not a militant non-smoker – I don’t carry a little portable fan with me to blow the smoke away and back towards the offending person in restaurants, and I won’t fake-cough whenever someone lights up in my presence. But I do draw the line at smoking when I can. I don’t frequent businesses that reek of tobacco, and I won’t stay in a hotel room that’s designated for smokers. And I won’t let anyone smoke in my car or home. So don’t ask, because the answer is no.
I briefly smoked when I was 18. Very briefly. I bought one pack, smoked about 6 of them, though “Ugh, what the hell am I doing this for?”, and threw the rest away. They were nasty, and I wasn’t enjoying it, so my “habit” lasted for all of two days. Then when I was 20 I briefly dated a girl who smoked, and as much as I liked her personally, all I could think was that I was hanging out with a stinky, dirty ashtray. It killed all chance of romance, that’s for sure, and our relationship soon soured. Gee, imagine that.
So here I am, 20 years later. Why am I so against smoking? Well, for one thing, let me tell you about a guy I knew named Al. Al was my father, and had a 40-year friendship with the people at Pall-Mall. He tried quitting time and time again, but the addiction was just too much. But Al did finally quit – the day that his emphysema got so bad that the doctors had to put him on oxygen therapy for the rest of his life.
Imagine – being a normally strong, independent guy, now living with an oxygen tube up your nose, 24 hours a day, for the rest of your life. Imagine having to go through medicated nebulizer treatments every four hours, around the clock, every day, for the rest of your life. Imagine not being able to climb a flight of stairs without having to stop to rest and catch your breath. This was Al Gressel’s life for his final 10 years on Planet Earth. All thanks to an unbreakable habit he picked up as a teenager.
I have to hand it to my father, though – he never once bitched or moaned or complained about having to be attached to an oxygen tank. He knew that he’d done it to himself, and he took full responsibility for the smoking habit that landed him in that position. But he also made it a point to show his grandkids on a regular basis (including a very young Miss Katie) what might happen to those who choose to smoke. Oh, sure – you may luck out and miss having throat polyps or lung cancer or making your kids sick from second-hand smoke, but why risk it? Cigs aren’t that much fun, are they?
Smoking ended my father’s life in the summer of 1997, at age 74. Death from emphysema, induced by 40 years of Pall-Malls. But while he was alive he told me time and time again how much he wished he’d never started. And what I’d give to be able to have him here to give me the speech once again, for old times sake.
So my speech to Miss Katie this morning was simple and direct: One, a girl with asthma really shouldn’t be smoking in the first place, and two – please never forget the image of your grandfather walking around with a hose up his nose, because that’s not what you want.
Fortunately, Miss Katie said she doesn’t smoke – which I already knew up front, mainly from the lack of stale smoke smell on her, but I wanted to hear it out of her mouth. She said they belonged to a friend of hers who left them in her car, which is a sincere possibility. But hopefully Grandpa Gressel made enough of an impression on her that she won’t ever start.
So there’s my speech for the day, kids. Don’t smoke. Your lungs – and your kids - will thank you someday.
So while I’m in her car, what do I happen to find sitting in the front console? Half of a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Swell.
Now, technically Miss Katie is 18, so if she wants to smoke, she’s perfectly entitled to. God Bless America, Praise the Lord and pass the Camels. But smoking? That’s one habit she doesn’t need in her life right now.
I’m really not a militant non-smoker – I don’t carry a little portable fan with me to blow the smoke away and back towards the offending person in restaurants, and I won’t fake-cough whenever someone lights up in my presence. But I do draw the line at smoking when I can. I don’t frequent businesses that reek of tobacco, and I won’t stay in a hotel room that’s designated for smokers. And I won’t let anyone smoke in my car or home. So don’t ask, because the answer is no.
I briefly smoked when I was 18. Very briefly. I bought one pack, smoked about 6 of them, though “Ugh, what the hell am I doing this for?”, and threw the rest away. They were nasty, and I wasn’t enjoying it, so my “habit” lasted for all of two days. Then when I was 20 I briefly dated a girl who smoked, and as much as I liked her personally, all I could think was that I was hanging out with a stinky, dirty ashtray. It killed all chance of romance, that’s for sure, and our relationship soon soured. Gee, imagine that.
So here I am, 20 years later. Why am I so against smoking? Well, for one thing, let me tell you about a guy I knew named Al. Al was my father, and had a 40-year friendship with the people at Pall-Mall. He tried quitting time and time again, but the addiction was just too much. But Al did finally quit – the day that his emphysema got so bad that the doctors had to put him on oxygen therapy for the rest of his life.
Imagine – being a normally strong, independent guy, now living with an oxygen tube up your nose, 24 hours a day, for the rest of your life. Imagine having to go through medicated nebulizer treatments every four hours, around the clock, every day, for the rest of your life. Imagine not being able to climb a flight of stairs without having to stop to rest and catch your breath. This was Al Gressel’s life for his final 10 years on Planet Earth. All thanks to an unbreakable habit he picked up as a teenager.
I have to hand it to my father, though – he never once bitched or moaned or complained about having to be attached to an oxygen tank. He knew that he’d done it to himself, and he took full responsibility for the smoking habit that landed him in that position. But he also made it a point to show his grandkids on a regular basis (including a very young Miss Katie) what might happen to those who choose to smoke. Oh, sure – you may luck out and miss having throat polyps or lung cancer or making your kids sick from second-hand smoke, but why risk it? Cigs aren’t that much fun, are they?
Smoking ended my father’s life in the summer of 1997, at age 74. Death from emphysema, induced by 40 years of Pall-Malls. But while he was alive he told me time and time again how much he wished he’d never started. And what I’d give to be able to have him here to give me the speech once again, for old times sake.
So my speech to Miss Katie this morning was simple and direct: One, a girl with asthma really shouldn’t be smoking in the first place, and two – please never forget the image of your grandfather walking around with a hose up his nose, because that’s not what you want.
Fortunately, Miss Katie said she doesn’t smoke – which I already knew up front, mainly from the lack of stale smoke smell on her, but I wanted to hear it out of her mouth. She said they belonged to a friend of hers who left them in her car, which is a sincere possibility. But hopefully Grandpa Gressel made enough of an impression on her that she won’t ever start.
So there’s my speech for the day, kids. Don’t smoke. Your lungs – and your kids - will thank you someday.
posted by Tommy G at
10:31 AM
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