Waiting to inhale As much as I love my now-smoke-free life, I can’t help but feel a twinge of longing when I make my way past smokers’ alley BY ALAN OLIFSON

When I roll into work at 9:30 a.m., the smokers are already out in full force, probably on their second or third break. A permanent nimbus cloud of secondhand smoke has settled over the building’s entryway, making it impossible to get in without first passing through an olfactory spanking machine. No matter what kind of shampoo or body mist anyone may use before work, by the time we make it to the coffee machine, everyone smells like eau de bar-at-2-a.m. And no amount of ostentatious coughing while walking in is going to change anything. The smokers just sit there, undaunted, doing what they do best: loitering. Watching them all standing there, bundled in their autumn jackets and getting their nicotine fix, I think, Man, do I miss smoking. A lot.

It’s been four years since I kicked the habit, but if it were revealed tomorrow morning that cigarettes aren’t actually bad for you, I’d be two packs deep into a carton of Camels by noon. Of course, it’s exactly that kind of pathetic, unmanageable dependence that makes smoking such a bad idea in the first place.

I started in a misguided attempt to be — cool? Nope, try again. Responsible. Yes, I started smoking in high school as a way to be a more effective designated driver — you can almost hear the Marlboro Man rolling over in his grave.

What can I say: I’m a fidgety person. I pick my nails. I bounce my leg under the table. I shift in my seat. I play the drums — often when there are no actual drums in sight. I am in constant motion. It’s not that I’m high-strung or tightly wound. I doubt anyone would describe me as a bundle of energy. In fact, I don’t think anyone would describe me as a bundle of anything. If forced to use a container analogy, I’m guessing most people would go with "sack." But I am fidgety nonetheless. It’s like a personality trait: I’ve got brown hair, hazel eyes, and I play "Wipe Out" on the desk during meetings. So when it was my turn to be the designated driver to parties, I used smoking to keep my hands busy while everyone else played quarters. It’s not like there’s a lot of soda, gum, and lollipops lying around at a high-school kegger. Besides, in the true spirit of adolescent delusions of immortality, I don’t remember even thinking I’d become addicted. Nor do I remember thinking I wouldn’t become addicted. I just remember thinking Kelly Bowman was hot. Seriously. Even if she was flat.

Anyway, like a bad after-school special would have predicted, my innocent (if you can use the word "innocent" to describe smoking while your underage friends binge-drink) experimentation quickly spiraled out of control. From "Only when I’m designated driver" to "Only when I drink" to "Only at night" to "Only after noon" to "Hey, I know I don’t know you and it’s only eight in the morning, but can I bum a smoke?" By the end of my freshman year of college, I had a pack-a-day habit.

In college I rationalized my addiction as a youthful transgression. Something I’d outgrow and look back on with detached amusement, like my mullet. Of course I’d quit after college; it’s not like I was really a smoker. Then, much to my chagrin, college ended. Waking up the day after graduation, hung-over, living at my parents’ house, with no job, no idea what I wanted to do, and a lifetime of work staring me in the face like a klieg light, I realized what I really needed was a cigarette. My first attempt at quitting lasted four hours. It was seven years until I tried again.

Becoming a smoker is a gradual process. I don’t think anyone intends to be an adult smoker. Who wants their kids to smell an ashtray and think, "Mm, Daddy"? Who wants to spend flight layovers in a poorly ventilated airport smoking room like an animal in the zoo? "Here, we keep the feeble-willed addicts who’d rather wallow in their own communal filth than wait another few hours to go outside." Who wants to spend their golden years wheeling around an oxygen tank like a loyal pet? One day you’re young, immortal, and experimenting. The next day, you’re coughing up phlegm before brushing your teeth. Drug addiction is insidious like that. It’s also tends to be phlegmy, for some reason.

I quit on my 30th birthday. Cold turkey. A few days before, an old friend had casually mentioned that, whenever he pictured me, he pictured me with a cigarette. That was it. I wasn’t anyone’s designated driver anymore, anyway. We could afford taxis now.

The first thing I felt after quitting — once the nicotine withdrawal and weeping subsided — was a sense of lightness. For the first time in more than 10 years, I could walk out the door without having to first pat myself down for a pack and some matches. It was an amazingly liberating feeling. And trips suddenly involved much less math: "Okay, we’ll be camping for four days. One pack a day, plus a half-pack that Jim and Greg will mooch off me, plus an extra quarter-pack for the days we’ll be drinking, carry the two ... ." Smokers aren’t always panting because they’ve walked up a flight of stairs. Arithmetic can be exhausting.

But as much as I love my now-smoke-free life, with its welcome lack of math and wheezing, I can’t help but feel a twinge of longing when I make my way past smokers’ alley on my way into work. I still love the smell of a burning cigarette. And the sound of tobacco leaves crackling under the heat with each inhale. And the sight of the butt’s amber glow, framed against the backdrop of an overcast sky. Of course, all these sensations pale in comparison to actually breathing, so it’s not like I’m at temptation’s doorstep. But I have to admit, most of all, I miss the loitering.

Since you can’t find Alan Olifson smoking outside his office, you can reach him at alan@olifson.com