The Smell

I was fortunate enough to have an amazing childhood.  For those of you who can't say the same, I'm deeply sorry for that.  I was blessed with two parents that stayed together, who put my brother and I above themselves in every aspect of their lives.  Because of this, I have a plethora--this word is not used nearly enough in normal conversation--of childhood memories that I can look back and smile upon.  Like the time my pop's brand new fishing rod was yanked into the ocean because he was busy baiting my brother's hook due to his refusal to touch the live shrimp.  Or the time I shot my big mouthed brother out of a tree with my newly acquired sling shot, and subsequently lost all sling shot privileges for the foreseeable future.  And then their was that lamp that our resident ghost broke...

I could go on.  But I won't, because childhood stories only really interest those who were actually involved in the story at the time or were directly affected by their outcomes.  Much like people who love to constantly tell everyone about the things their children say and do.  Guess what?  No one but you really cares.  I'm sure your kids are wonderful, hilarious, and brilliant, but we either have our own kids that do that same stuff, or we have decided not to have children in order to avoid everything you're talking about.  That being said, I have one more memory to share...insert evil laugh smiley face emoticon.

My most vivid, favorite childhood memory centers around my dad's piece of crap, red Isuzu pick-up truck.  Now my pops, being the overachiever that he is, was always available to take us and pick us up from school.  The truck was always stocked with an extra large bag of watermelon Jolly Ranchers, and when it wasn't raining, my brother and I, along with a various bunch of neighborhood kids, would pile into the bed and ride home with the wind blowing through our hair and big idiotic grins on our faces.  This, of course, was before the hooplah about "safety" and "seat belts" was the talk of the town, and somehow we all managed to survive the 25mph, three block commute from school to my house.  We even altered a classic Christmas carol to include that stupid rust bucket.

But that wasn't even the best thing about the red Isuzu pick-up truck.  The best thing, the thing I still carry with me after twenty years, was the smell.  It stunk of stale cigarettes.  AND I LOVED IT!  To many people, that smell is enough to make them vomit, but for me, it's the best smell on the planet.  Better than falling rain, freshly cut grass, and my own farts.  To this day I get odd looks from smokers after I bury my face in their shirts and take a deep breath.  Maybe that's why I'm not allowed in the smoking area at work anymore.

At this point, it might be prudent to confess that I do smoke.  And after the above story of my dad's smoke-filled truck, one might be inclined to blame my father for this particular habit.  To be honest, I started smoking out of the sheer boredom while waiting between classes in college.  A stupid decision, but one that i made all on my own.  I also don't want to hear any comments on how I should quit.  I know I should quit, but I rarely, if ever, do things because someone tells me to.  Like when someone posts pictures of cancer kids on Facebook and then proceed to tell me to Like it if I support cancer kids.  Well I do support cancer kids, but I'm certainly not going to Like your Facebook status out of guilt.  And frankly, I think non-smokers should be more tolerant of my "disease", or does that term only apply to other addictions such as alcoholism, drug use, and watching Jersey Shore?  Last I heard, people are dying left and right from tobacco use, but hey, they can quit just like that, right?  They don't need any support system...let's just shun them from public places and raise the taxes on them so they can't afford them anymore.  Quitting ain't easy.  It's like trying to get the garbage man to take an old trashcan.  You can keep putting it out by the curb, but chances are its still going to be there at the end of the day.  After several half-hearted attempts, you'll have to make some serious extra effort to get it to stick. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the smell!  One downfall of smoking is that you grow accustomed to the smell and you don't really notice it anymore.  I've quit on multiple occasions for a multitude of reasons, and it's only after I've been smoke-free for a while that I start to notice the smell again.  I've been known to follow co-workers back to their offices as they return from the smoking area just to get a whiff of what I've been missing.  One day, maybe soon, I swear I'll kick this habit for good.  But all the coffee and all the donuts in all the world will never compare to my love of the smell of cigarettes in the morning.