I am an ex-smoker. This fall will mark my 21st anniversary of quitting.
So now that you know that, you can assume whatever bias you like from this rant. But since I’ve been walking a couple of blocks to a downtown building to get to my new job, I’m getting grumpy about smokers. I really resent having to weave through a cloud of exactly the stuff I want to avoid, in order to get to my place of employment.
Smokers, you have no idea how bad you smell. You don’t know that non-smokers can tell if someone in a passing car is smoking. And when we come up behind someone on the street who has a lit cigarette in their hand, we sometimes hold our breath. And that yesterday, when we pulled a dinner napkin out of our lunchbag, it reeked of the smoke that we were forced to absorb as it was emitted by a herd of you as we entered our building. I’m not kidding.
On the weekend, a kindly older gentleman approached us as we were fussing with something on one of the motorcycles. He was puffing on a cigarillo. He nicely tried to conceal it from the open air but its rank and foul odour permeated the area. It stuck to my hair so that I could smell it later when I undid my ponytail. I really, really hate smoke. I am allergic to it now and one gulp of it gives me a headache that has the potential to ruin my day.
I miss the days of the enclosed little cancer shack that smokers had to seal themselves into. It was less invasive for those of us who don’t partake in the habit. And it made approaching an office building a more pleasant thing to do.