Monday, November 29, 2010



I started smoking in the kibbutz in grade ten. I was fifteen and had just left a heartbreaking relationship and for the first time since the break up I was interested in someone else. It made me nervous but happy. The subject of my crush sat in front of me in the classroom and made me laugh all day. At 10am recess he secretly smoked under the bomb shelter steps and at the time I thought cigarettes to be pretty much the most disgusting thing, ever. Regardless, I found myself on the same steps a few months into the school year, smoking Marlboro Reds. I bought them because it was what my dad smoked at the time and I didn't know any other brands.

The first cigarette I ever had was pretty dramatic. We had been drinking in another kibbutz during New Years and I was upset because my friend was puking and crying. I even remember what I was wearing: black and white striped pants and army boots that I stole from my neighbour. Everyone was getting mad about the puking and I felt frustrated and left the party, followed by a boy who I found to be predatory and usually avoided. I was slightly drunk and wanted to be left alone so I started running. I ran into the forest (actually it was an avocado grove) and promptly tripped and fell in the dark. He caught up but instead of being creepy he helped me up and we walked to the nearby bus stop. It felt nice. And when he passed me a smoke I took it with trust and no hesitation.

Maybe if I start associating cigarettes with cancer and death instead of romantic feelings I could quit. Let's try this.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Smokers don't run marathons! Just keep telling yourself that.