This Thursday, the American Cancer Society will again hold its annual Great American Smokeout, encouraging smokers to kick their habits.
I grew up in the ’50s and ’60s when everyone smoked. Both parents, most of my aunts and uncles, and almost all my friends puffed away happily.
On the movie screen, Audrey Hepburn waved her long, bejeweled trademark cigarette holder in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Humphrey Bogart seductively lit Lauren Bacall’s Lucky Strike. Smoking looked elegant and glamorous.
One little thing, however, prevented me from ever becoming a smoker – FIRE!
To smoke ’em, you have to light the things, and fire absolutely terrifies me.
I am pushing 60 hard, and I have never lit a match in my whole entire life. Most people have a healthy respect for fire; I have a pathological fear.
When Mom put birthday candles on my cake, I’d insist that she light only one, just to get my wish. And forget the song! Fifteen seconds of candlelight was too long!
My dad purchased sparklers for July 4. Instead of merrily waving them around like the other kids, I’d stick mine in the yard. Dad would light them and I’d watch them twinkle from 20 feet away.
Cigarettes became an issue for me in high school when my friends started smoking. They seemed grown-up and sophisticated.
But I simply couldn’t do it.
Take a handful of dry, dead leaves wrapped in tissue paper, light it on fire and hold it up to my face? Not this girl!
In the restroom, a friend would say, “Hold this for me while I wash my hands.”
No way! She’d have to perch her butt on the sink’s edge.
My friend Sharon smoked in secret. Her family totally objected. We’d sneak up to her attic and chat while she blew her smoke out the window. One day, a watchful neighbor spotted the smoke and called the fire department. THAT was a moment!
As I grew older, new fire-related issues cropped up.
I’d cower in bars and clubs as folks holding drinks and cigarettes lurched past me.
When a date took me someplace ritzy for a candlelight dinner, I’d blow the candle out. So much for ambiance.
At home, I approached my gas range like it was an active volcano. I still do! I know my fire phobia directly affects my lack of cooking talent. And barbeque? Out of the question!
Frankly, the new laws that restrict smoking in public places delight me.
The smell of smoke never bothered me. I didn’t consider the health risks of secondhand smoke. It’s the FIRE factor that scares the dickens out of me, and probably always will.
So, smokers, good luck to you Thursday. I salute your quest to quit. If not for my fire phobia, I’d be one of you.
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MICHELE M. BENDER | Where there's smoke, there's fire
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