Pieces Of Me...

*Got this from a friend's blog, but it's here for a reason...

Stand by your (Marlboro) Man

Want him to quit smoking? It took mine only 17 years
'THAT'S your husband?' asked a woman I'd just met. I nodded.

Together we watched Larry, alone on a snow-covered porch, puffing away while the
party went on inside.

'I'd never date a smoker,' she said, 'much less marry one.'

'I didn't marry one,' I said. 'Larry quit before the wedding.'

I declined to mention that 'before' meant 'the day of' and that 'quit' actually meant 'refrained from' until he had so sullied our honeymoon with his grumpy behaviour, I almost wished he'd start again.

'Still, he smokes now,' she said. 'For me, it's a deal breaker.'

Did she think it had never occurred to me to have a rule against smoking? Indoctrinated by parents whose cocktail parties were littered with 'no smoking' signs back when smokers still mingled freely in society, I hated the habit.

I wanted to ask her: How can you so casually dismiss someone you might love just because of one annoying habit? Was it Larry's fault he started smoking at 16 and couldn't seem to stop, despite a record-setting number of attempts?

I first met him in our college library, where smoking was not permitted. By the time our paths crossed again, outside the library, I was already so smitten it was a miracle I was able to croak out a disbelieving 'You smoke?' when he pulled out a pack of
cigarettes.

I imagined my parents' reaction to the news that their 17-year-old daughter was
involved not just with an older man (Larry was 21, a law student), but one who
smoked.

'Yes, but I'm quitting,' he answered, inhaling deeply on his Marlboro.

How long could it take? I wondered. Two weeks? A month? A year later we were
still together: me, Larry and the cigarettes. The Larry and me part was great.
The cigarettes part not so good.

I found myself alone in restaurants while Larry stepped out, cold in his topless Jeep (air circulation needed), and afraid for my life as his cigarettes dangled precariously near flammable materials. Yet I was so in love I was unable, that first year, to protest anything he did. But when he forgot my birthday and still remembered to buy a new lighter, I gathered my nerve and blurted out: 'Do you remember what you said when we first met?'
'Nope.'
'That you'd quit smoking.'
'I did?'
'Yes. So will you?'
'Sure.'
'Um, when?'
'How about when we drive to Florida next week?'

Goodbye, cigarettes, but hello, withdrawal symptoms, on our 20-hour road
trip to Miami. Petrified of being barked at for even the smallest conversational
infraction, I limited yself to a few rest-stop requests. And in Miami, after
making the excruciating rounds of his disjointed family, I had new insight into
Larry's psyche and a new desire to shove a cigarette into his mouth. Not
that he needed any encouragement.

Back at school, with torts to study, video games to play and socks to pair, leaf turning was not a priority. But once law school ended, Larry was determined to quit, and he did. Picking him up from his new job as a law clerk for a federal judge, I was proud of my smoke-free, young professional boyfriend.

Then one day, something seemed askew.

'Larry, you smell so minty,' I said, leaning over for a kiss. 'The dentist told
me to clean my teeth more often, so I'm keeping a toothbrush in my briefcase.'
Many wintergreen kisses later, I found a cigarette butt floating in the toilet.
'Don't you care about yourself?' I cried. 'Or me?'
He claimed he did and signed up for a smoking cessation class. 'How'd it go?' I asked when he returned. 'The people in my class are a mess. They elected me their unofficial group leader. Trust me, smoking is the least of their problems.'

So much for the class or any cessation. But I kept on it. I grilled friends, relatives
and recovering addicts. I researched hypnosis, acupuncture and lobotomy. I
bought books, tapes and videos. All failed. Then Larry proposed, promising to
quit before we were married. And again he did.

Back from our honeymoon, he was industrious on other fronts, too, embracing more than his share of daily errands. Nothing was too small, large or inconvenient for Larry to procure. Low on napkins during a season finale? Larry was out the door. Craving ice cream at 2am? No problem. Need shampoo during a snowstorm? Be right back.

Soon I smelled trouble, or, more precisely, smoke upon Larry's return. Devastated, I couldn't fathom that I'd legally entangled myself with a man who would run
errands under false pretences.

The truth is that Larry was completely supportive. When I wanted to move closer to my parents, he agreed. When I wanted to start a business, he said: 'Go for it.' Why couldn't I accept him as he accepted me, flaws and all? I loved his sensitivity, sense of humour and all-or-nothing passion for new endeavours.

Defending the indefensible made me cringe, but, I had to wonder, was smoking any more an indicator of compatibility than a person's penchant for world travel or sunset strolls? Then one day I spotted Larry huddling pathetically with a puffing posse in front of his smoke-free office building. My conviction wavered. Had he no pride?

'We're all going to die one day,' Larry told me.
'Must we contribute to our own demise?'
'You just don't want to be alone.'
'Is that such a sin?'

Perhaps the demise thing hit home. A few weeks later, he started taking a prescription drug designed to help smokers kick the habit. Despite nightmares, profuse sweating and an inability to think clearly, he stuck with the medication.

Several months later, we went out to dinner with another couple.
'I'm sorry Larry's smoking again,' my friend Jen said. 'Dave is too.'
'Oh, no,' I said. 'Larry quit months ago.'
'I thought I saw him smoking on his way to the train the other day.'
Could it be true? Later I confronted Larry.
'Tell me the truth. I won't be mad. Did you start again?'
'No,' he said, looking me straight in the eye.
A week later I found cigarettes hidden in his dusty gym bag.

That evening, for the first time, I slept in another room.

Smoking was one thing, but lying, right to my face, was another. This was no
longer only about an annoying and unhealthy habit. It was about trust. If he
could lie so easily about smoking, what would stop him from lying again about
something, or someone, else?

I actually considered leaving, but where would I go?

Later that night, Larry crawled in beside me and whispered: 'I'm so sorry. I didn't want to disappoint you.'

I knew I would never leave.

Instead, I decided I would quit - my nagging, I mean. And so I was shocked but silent when, without any urging, Larry, on a rotating cocktail of prescription drugs, the patch and nicotine gum, finally did it. A month went by, then three. I was
cautiously optimistic. The patch disappeared, then the pills. I felt hopeful.
The gum lingered for an eternity, constantly being chomped, chewed or parked in
his mouth. Then one day it was gone.

Larry was officially a non-smoker, a socially acceptable mate. It had taken only 17 years. --- New York Times