There is a chapter in Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point that is about addiction. The way ol’ Malc sees it, there are two types of people in the world: those who are physiologically prone to addiction … and chippers. Chippers are those lucky souls who, for some reason, don’t have the chemical makeup that gives them that special propensity toward addictions to drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, etc.

I am a chipper.

I drink a fair bit, but I could stop tomorrow and never do it again. I spent a decent amount of time in my twenties smokin’ pot, but I have also gone years in between stoner stints and not even thought about it. I smoked cigarettes in college and for a few years after. But one day, I decided smoking was gross and I’ve never picked up a cigarette again. No withdrawl, no urges, nothing.

Which is why I am having an extremely difficult time supporting GTB in his battle to give up cigarettes. He was sick a couple of weeks ago and decided he was sick of being sick and attributed it to the cancer sticks. So he threw away his last pack of American Spirits and embarked on a quest to become a non-smoker.

This decision made me very happy, naturally. As a girl with some remnant abandonment issues (hey, I’m workin’ on it), every cigarette he lit up felt like a slap in the face. I KNOW it has nothing to do with me. But because GTB is someone I want around for a very long time, I cringe at the thought of losing him to something as disgusting and painful and, ultimately, preventable, as lung cancer.

He’s currently on day 13, and it’s been an interesting journey so far.

Last Friday, out with friends, we’d had a couple of beers and were sitting around chatting. In other words, the perfect time to light up. He was jonesin’ bad and I was at a total loss about how best to convince him not to have one while not being a raving bitch about it.

He broke down to the point where he actually held his friend’s cigarette in his hand for a minute, but he handed it back before he put it to his mouth. As we were driving home later, I told him how proud I was of him and how hard I know that must have been. The next night, he confessed to me and some other friends that he’d had a drag while I was in the bathroom.

I was pissed, and told him so. “How could you let me go on and on about how proud I am?”

“It was just a drag! Geez! It’s not that big of a deal.”

Which is true. But still.

I don’t have any idea how hard it is to give up something that has been a part of your life for almost half of it. Because he was never a big smoker anyway (we’re talking maybe one or two a day, unless he was drinking or playing with the band), I am having a difficult time understanding why this is so tough. I mean, a pack-a-day smoker, sure. I get that. Get a patch, get it over with. But for a guy who could go a couple of days without lighting up, why is adding a few more days causing such stress?

It’s not that I don’t sympathize. I do. I feel bad for him. I know it sucks. I know he’s tired of being grumpy. I know that he’s convinced that one cigarette will end this misery, even as he realizes it’s a step backward.

But I have no empathy. And I’m afraid that makes me a bad girlfriend.

Wednesday night, the band had a gig. What GTB endured that night, as all of his friends would step outside to smoke while he sat inside with me and the other pansy non-smokers, must have been horrible. And so was I. At one point, when we were talking about it, I actually said something to him about how when he’s thinking of lighting up, he should think of me and our unborn children. “Think of your orphaned children,” I joked. I was totally joking. It was a joke.

But it wasn’t a very funny joke, apparently. So joking about it is out.

As is being visibly pissed about it.

As is making it about me AT ALL.

As is trying to talk about something else, like the grocery list, when he’s jonesin’.

As is reminding him that it’s a good thing and someday he won’t ache with the loss of it anymore.

I love him no matter what. If he breaks down and has one, I will still love him. But when I say that to him, and he says back, “Yeah, I know you love me, but I don’t want you to be disappointed if I have one,” how am I supposed to respond? Of course I’ll be disappointed. I WANT him to quit.

So what do I do? I’m one of those people who, if you get sick, will run around like a crazy woman trying to make you feel better. I’m slowly learning that sometimes, you just feel like shit and no amount of soup, DayQuil, foot rubs, or good movie rentals can make it better. Not that that stops me from trying.

I guess smoking is kinda like that. It’s just going to suck for a while.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 14th, 2006 at 10:31 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.