My husband, Alex, smokes.
Gross, I know, but I’m going to say thank you to him right now because 95% of the time he smokes outside. sure, I sometimes bust him out on the couch in his underwear and robe in the middle of the night because it’s raining and 36 degrees outside. But for the most part he’s pretty good about taking his filthy habit outside.
And that’s a good thing cause I just read about 3rd hand smoke in Time Magazine(yes, I still read magazines made out of paper). 3rd hand smoke is the toxic stuff left behind by 1st and 2nd hand smoke. If a smoker hangs out in your living room it gets in your sofa, our carpet it’s even in clothing.
So Alex, thank you for smoking outside, most of the time. That in itself is an act of love.
So, how do I explain my parents who smoked all the time and everywhere, in the car, the house, the bathroom. I remember my mom tried not to smoke when she taught Sunday school but she kept a cigarette in her hand to wave around throughout the class. She literally used her unlit cigarette it as a pointer on the black board.
Lord, as a child I must have smelled wretched, and our lovely home must have reeked. There were ashtrays in every room of course (expensive artsy ones of course). But I guess we didn’t’ notice because everybody had parents who smoked.
Here’s the really “great” part. My mom admitted when I was a baby she would nurse me, smoke a cigarette and have a cocktail…at the same time. It was her “relaxing time”. It’s a wonder I didn’t grow a third arm just to slap her with. Can you imagine watching your baby nursing then blowing cigarette smoke on that perfect face. I was awash in 1.5, 2nd and 3rd hand smoke. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a smoker’s hack by the time I turned two. No wonder I’ve got “issues”.
So Alex, I know your sitting at the computer right now, reading this and nobody else is home so you’re probably lighting up a Marlboro as I type but thanks anyway. Just light a candle before I get home, ok?