Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Boringness of Clean Living

What kind of a human gets a hangover from one beer? I'm disgusted at myself. True, it was one of those big fishbowl glasses of Affligem, but still. I fear I am becoming weak. I fear my liver has become to clean with all this healthy living. All these AFDs. That is house-speak for Alcohol Free Day. See - it's so common we even have an acronym for it. Ah, to be disgusting again, to wake up feeling ok about being hungover, because it is just normal. Not to panic and think - how many days have I lost off the end of my life? I dream of cigarettes, long, white, beautiful. Cigarettes are so very right in Paris because they mean you can enjoy the atmosphere more. What's the point of sitting on terraces reading books if you can't draw back on a lovely rollie made of J's Fleur de Pays? Or just a good, trusty Marlboro straight from the packet, alongside a fantastic, rancid café crème. Cigarettes make the moment longer. And if it's that time of the day where you feel like neither a coffee or a beer, you can just sit on a step somewhere, or even stand, and watch the world go by, smoking. You would look and feel weird if you just stood there, probably like a pervert. I remember an old friend, annoyed at smokers getting smoke breaks in his office suggested that he and his mates go out for fart breaks. They could just stand around, talk, fart. Shoot the breeze, so to speak. I understood his point - how boring is life for non-smokers - there's no point to going outside and enjoying unnecessary life moments. Smoking helps you take in time, be present, hear a story about last night's fumbled root. You're more involved in life. It's better.

I've thought about lighting up many, many a time, of late. But the trouble is, now I have a daughter and am getting old, suddenly my health is more important than anything. That was never an issue before - I just was healthy. I didn't need to try at it so much - certainly didn't need to get up a 6:30am in the morning and do yoga ever day to feel fit. Now the thought of waking up with ciggy lungs is unbearable. Disgusting. Even the thought of that sweet sweet first drag on that springtime terrace in the early evening sun, pinching the stem of a glass of rosé is not enough to conquer the fear of that crusty chest. 

Ah, aging is so boring. What do those spiky red-lipped middle-aged walker-smokers everywhere think about it? They seem so happy with their little friend, but what about the mornings? Don't they feel the panic of their end of days growing ever closer with every inhale? Don't they worry that their enjoyment now of that lovely rich tobacco will tomorrow turn their skin yellow and their lips to stone? 

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