Finding Peace with a Puff
Just the other day, I lit up my first cigar in over twenty years. No, I haven’t fallen off the wagon into some smoky abyss. It was just a small return to a bygone pleasure.
Back when I used to enjoy the occasional stogie with my brothers-in-law, an insurance policy scared me straight. Turns out, indulging in that “evil habit” would’ve bumped up my premiums. But now, years later, I took a look at my current policy and—lo and behold—no mention of smoking.
Which got me wondering: has our obsession with perfect health driven us a little mad?
The relapse began with a whiff of temptation. I was out walking my dog. The morning air was fresh, and trees and bushes surrounded well-kept lawns and homes. Suddenly, the sweet smell of cigar smoke drifted over a tall wooden fence. Irresistible. I chuckled, popped my head over like a curious raccoon, and there was a fellow about my age puffing away in his backyard. His T-shirt told me he was a Bears fan. Naturally, we struck up a conversation. Mike and I were two old guys bonding over smoke and sports.
Pre-Approval
Next week, I came prepared—both socially and legally. I had re-read my policy.
“That cigar smells good,” I said again, this time to his son or maybe his son-in-law. The grandkids were playing on the swing set, two boys full of motion and noise.
“Oh, by the way,” I added casually, “I double-checked my insurance. Turns out smoking’s not forbidden.”
He grinned. “Want one? They’re Phillips Chocolate.”
“Sure, I’d be glad to,” I said, congratulating myself for properly inviting myself into someone else’s leisure time.
Glowing Ember
That evening, I brought the cigar home, sat on the balcony, and lit up. The evening sun peaked over rooftops and through the leafy summer shade of nearby trees. Watching the red ember glow and smoke curl into the twilight—well, there’s something deeply satisfying about fire. Primitive, maybe. Masculine, certainly. It tasted good. My wife quietly shut the glass door to the balcony. A not-so-subtle reminder that cigar smoke was still an unwelcome invader in our home.
It made me reflect: Have we gone too far with our crusade against smoking?
I’m not saying we all need to pick up the habit. But the zeal with which society banishes every trace of smoke feels a bit… fanatical. An occasional puff—of a cigar, a cigarette—once brought a kind of reflective calm. Now it brings lectures.
Three More Miserable Years
Remember that 2008 study by the Japanese researcher Dr. K. Ozasa? It showed that men who quit smoking between forty and fifty lived 3.7 years longer than those who didn’t. That’s not nothing, but it’s not the twenty-year death sentence you might expect with all the hoopla that’s made today about puffing for pleasure. Comedian Jay Leno famously quipped, “Yes, if you quit smoking, you get three more years of misery!”
Perspective matters. The study didn’t even distinguish between a pack-a-day smoker and someone who lights up at weddings. Just “smokers.” One big, hazy category.
My personal smoking philosophy formed back in high school. Luanne, who worked at Kmart, sat behind me in algebra class. One afternoon she leaned over and said, “I can’t wait for school to end so I can get outside and have a smoke.”
“Why don’t you just quit?” I asked.
She looked at me with weary wisdom: “It’s not that easy. Just don’t ever start.”
I never forgot her advice. It stuck. I never let smoking become a habit.
The Runner Who Lit Up
Still, moderation tells its own story. Years ago, I was told of a news segment about a 100-mile ultramarathon in New Mexico—or maybe it was Utah. The winner, a wiry young man from Peru, finished the race with grit and grace. And what did he do afterward? Pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
I can only imagine the horror on American faces. A top-tier athlete, the very picture of vitality, smoking a cigarette on national television. It was as if he had spat in the face of every gym membership and vitamin bottle in the country. But to him, I suspect, it was just how he relaxed.
We’ve inherited an odd health Puritanism. Go to the library and you’ll find books urging you to avoid sugar, meat, carbs—everything but air and guilt. Right next to those? Tomes encouraging just the opposite. Eat all the red meat you want! Or YouTube videos by trim young doctors claiming four eggs a day is the key to immortality.
Who do you trust?
Faith, Chocolate and Not Worrying
Here’s a lesson from my family. My dad smoked Lucky Strikes and Winstons for thirty years. Quit at age forty-five. And one more thing – he lived to age ninety-two. How did he beat the odds?
Our family doesn’t really know for sure. But I know that he can be credited for exercising twenty minutes a day, every day, and for a while twice a day. He simply followed the directives of his physical therapist. Ate moderately, though he loved chocolate. Had a drink now and then. Said his prayers. Slept well.
And—this part’s important—he didn’t worry too much. About his diet. About perfection. About whether his choices would shave minutes off his life. If there a problem, he seemed to say – do your best and leave the rest to God.
If you have children who grew up in the 1990s or later, you’ll remember the line from The Lion King: “Hakuna Matata.” Let go of worry and embrace the moment.