Down The Smokey Way

Among the first things that I did upon gaining employment as a newspaper reporter way back in the early '70s was to pick up smoking.

[Interesting as the account would be, for courtesy's sake in this blessed month, we'll steer clear of the other, and much more intoxicating, major vice ... :-D]

Unlike most women who tested the waters with mentholated or low-tar cigarettes, I started strong, with a real 'kaw' brand, Benson & Hedges.

Ask me not the reason for picking up the habit because, after all these years, I still do not know exactly why. The most likely answer would be that I was seeking acceptance amongst my peers, to be regarded as 'one of the boys.'

Being young and impressionable, having a cigarette between my fingers seemed like the most glamorous thing ever. It felt so grown-up, so adult, to smoke a real cigerette in full public view.

My immature young mind saw smoking as a way of shedding my 'kampung' past. The gauche Dungun girl was no more; in her place was a worldly (so I thought!) young woman making her life in a big city.

At the time, there was no way I could fight (even if I had wanted to) the urge to steer clear of cigarettes. Not only they beckoned everywhere I turned, they were also cheap (at RM2.50 per pack) and plentiful.

Also, it was a different era altogether, a time when smoking was as natural as belching and breaking wind. Besides, there was no stigma attached to smoking.

And there was nobody breathing down your neck expounding the virtues of not smoking either. Neither were you treated like a pariah for puffing away.

Back then, doing cigarettes was so lame and tame compared to what many others were indulging in - smoking pot - hashish, ganja, marijuana, the works.

Everywhere I turned on the editorial floor, I saw cigarettes dangling from someone's lips. In fact, one would be hard put to find a non-smoking journalist.

The editorial floor reeked of stale smoke, but we were too busy churning out stories on our rickety typewriters, and chain-smoking, to worry about such trivial things like stale air.

In today's newsroom, however, off you go to the corridors for a puff. Newsrooms are so clean and sanitary you could eat off the floor.

And the atmosphere of today's newsroom too is so boringly mellow, unlike in days of old when the air would be blue with curses (we swore a lot, and loudly too, those days).

In all, I had put in some 32 years of puffing. I shall refrain from calling the habit 'filthy', not because I once belonged to the same fraternity but because I don't fancy being sanctimonious.

I was packing in two and a half packs a day. That translates into 50 sticks daily. I had gone through the whole gamut of brands in the process; you name it, I had tried it.

From lembik ladylike ones like Cartier and Virginia Slims to jantan macho ones like Camel and Dunhill, I have had a whale of a 'good' time congesting my lungs with tar and staining my nails and fingertips with nicotine.

Whilst servicing the Thai Tourism Board in the early to mid '90s, I was taken by a rather mild local Thai brand called 'Falling Rain' and bought them by the cartons each time I travelled north.

In addition to cigarettes, I was also addicted to cigarillos for they complemented 'the other vice' pretty well. Those days, apart from work, my life revolved around the two vices and nothing much more.

I had never taken a shine to kretek; not only I found the aroma cloying, kretek also had this disgusting tendency to burn holes in your clothing quite easily.

Smoking was indeed a strange habit, at least where I was concerned. Throughout my four pregnancies, I could lay off cigarettes (and 'the other vice') without any hassle at all.

Yet I picked up where I left off the moment I returned to work. Excuses reeled off easily then for not quitting, the main one being "I can't think/write creatively without a cigarette on my lips."

Of course it's crap reasoning. I should know because I have been writing creatively for the past six years without this crutch. I quit cold-turkey in 2004 and have not picked up a single stick since.

I guess I just didn't feel like letting go because smoking was such a pleasurable thing to do. Shoot me if you must, but that was the absolute truth.

It didn't matter that smoking was harmful to your health. All things considered, smoking was really one of those 'feel good' habits.

Three years into my marriage to fellow smoker Pak Abu, I was beginning to feel tired of smoking. Somehow it had ceased to be an enjoyable pastime.

Each time I reached out for a cigarette (after a meal, especially), it was a reflex action more than a real need, and I knew it. I still craved for them, though. Like most diehard smokers, my addiction was intense.

Then one day in 2004, with one half-full pack in hand I suddenly decided the stick I was puffing on at the time was to be my last. Scrunched the aforesaid pack and launched it into a wastebasket I did.

Thankfully, I did not suffer any withdrawal symptoms for quitting cold turkey. Instead I felt a sense of relief that I had managed to overcome my 32 years of addiction without as much as a whimper.

For so long I had nursed this notion that Hell would freeze over before I could, and would, lay off cigarettes. I had not banked on quitting being so painless.

I guess I had once again underestimated my own willpower. Still, it felt good to be in control of one's own destiny...