Summary

The author reflects on their decade-long journey of quitting smoking, the unexpected cravings that resurfaced years later, and the realization that the desire for cigarettes is tied to nostalgia and memories rather than nicotine addiction.

Abstract

The author, who quit smoking on February 1, 2013, recounts the circumstances that led to their decision to stop smoking, including moving into a no-smoking apartment and the inconvenience of having to go outside to smoke. Despite the challenges, they managed to quit and initially felt better for it. However, years later, the author began experiencing cravings again, particularly in social settings or during moments of solitude. They argue that the craving is not just for nicotine but for the nostalgia of youth and camaraderie that smoking represented. The author concludes by questioning whether other ex-smokers share similar experiences and invites dialogue on the subject.

Opinions

The author believes that the addiction to smoking is not solely due to nicotine, as evidenced by their continued cravings a decade after quitting.
They suggest that smoking is deeply intertwined with social interactions and memories, which is why the desire to smoke can reemerge in specific contexts or emotional states.
The author expresses a sense of loss and nostalgia for the past, which is triggered by the act of smoking or the thought of it.
They imply that the reality of the present does not match the idealized memories of the past, which can lead to feelings of disappointment when attempting to recapture those times through smoking.
The author seems to be critical of the societal shift towards health consciousness, juxtaposing the current health trends with the pervasive smoking culture of the past.

What I Wouldn’t Give for a Cigarette!

I gave up smoking ten years ago — why do I still crave them?

I gave up smoking on February 1, 2013. I remember the date because it was the day I moved into a new apartment in Lyon, and only realized it was no-smoking after I’d signed the lease.

I could have annulled the contract and looked for something else. But it was a nice place in a good location, plus it was cheap.

I smoked Gauloises at the time. They weren’t as strong as Gitanes, but they were still pungent, and there would be no way to hide the smell if the landlord came round.

There was no balcony either. And as I was on the tenth floor, it meant taking the building’s ancient elevator each time I wanted to go outside. I could take the stairs but they were steep, and I was unfit.

It was my first night in the apartment. I’d been teaching from dawn to dust in the language school where I worked, and I was exhausted. I cooked some food, opened a bottle of wine, and settled in front of the TV.

After I’d finished my meal I wanted to smoke, but didn’t want to miss the ridiculous action movie I’d started watching. So I told myself I’d go downstairs during the break. Then I got annoyed. I didn’t want to go downstairs. I wanted to smoke right here right now watching TV in my own apartment.

When I was a kid everyone smoked in France. In restaurants, bars, cafés, buses, trains, taxis, offices, banks, phone booths, cinemas, hospitals, museums, and libraries. It was the national pastime, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the French had invented smoking.

Yet now in the trendy, oh so very fucking healthy 21st century, despite half the population being fat because there’s a McDonald’s on every corner, I can’t smoke in my own apartment!

‘Well, fuck you, Mr. Landlord!’

I half-reached for my Gauloises, but then remembered he was coming round in the morning to install a new state-of-the-art oven (apparently). So I got up to go outside. Then looked at the pouring rain through the window, and got back on the sofa and poured more wine…

I woke up with a hangover, but here’s the thing. It was the first time I hadn’t smoked in the evening since I had tonsillitis teaching at another language school in Warsaw in 1999. I wouldn’t say I felt any better — I had a pounding headache — but my mouth didn’t feel like an ashtray. And neither did my apartment smell like one.

I cold-showered, drank coffee, ate a dry croissant, and headed to the door, just as my landlord rang the bell. I let him in. He saw the two empty bottles but didn’t say anything. Then he sniffed the air.

I left him to it and went to work.

That was ten years ago, and I haven’t had a cigarette since.

I was so hungover that morning I didn’t smoke all day. When I got home in the evening, I simply ate and went to bed. After that I decided to keep going, and apart from some slightly unpleasant nicotine withdrawal, I found it relatively easy to stop.

After a few months, I barely thought about it.

So it was odd that a few years back I started having cravings again. Sometimes in a bar. But more normally out camping or walking in the hills. Or sitting outside on a crisp winter’s morning with a coffee.

So what’s going on?

We’re told we smoke because we’re addicted to nicotine. But that’s garbage. Nicotine might get you hooked to a degree, but it’s not why we smoke. How can it be when ten years later I still crave cigarettes? Am I craving nicotine? Unlikely.

Am I craving my youth? Probably.

Picture this: You’re twenty-two years old. You’re sitting with friends, everyone is drinking and smoking, the sun is shining and everyone is having a good time.

Fast-forward twenty-five years: It’s winter, it’s cold and raining, most of your friends are married, some are dead, and the ones you like have moved away.

That’s the trigger! I’ll have a cigarette in a bar, and all my friends will come rushing by and it’ll be like old times again.

But it isn’t. Because after the first few drags you feel sick. So you snub the half-finished cigarette out and wonder what you’re doing sitting on your own on a cold winter’s evening.

How’s that for nostalgia?

Because that’s all it is. A beautiful warped technicolor version of how things used to be. When in reality, it’s just the plain black-and-white movie of how your life is right now. So you throw the pack of cigarettes away, curse your stupidity, and go home feeling even worse.

Thanks for reading. I don’t normally ask questions on Medium, but: do any other ex-smokers feel like this?

If so, let me know. Thanks.