Smoking

My sister, Fran, smokes.

She does it in an earthy artistic way that is hard to condemn as unhealthy. We do our best to act disapproving by staring at her accusingly whenever a "quitting" commercial featuring a sad orphan or a man whose lost his job, house, wife and children because of cigarettes comes on the television. But honestly, she makes it look good and we have to hide our grudging admiration behind our morally correct judgement!

But the truth is, she makes it look good.

I tried smoking a total of one time. I remember it well. I was standing outside the apartment I shared with Greg, took a small drag on the cigarette he was smoking and my lungs let me know they were not impressed. I coughed and choked loudly enough that he rushed me back inside so that I wouldn't wake up the neighbors. It really didn't boost me up on the sexy and mysterious scale at all.

In contrast, Fran rolls her own in smoky pubs while drinking dense local brews,

expounding effortlessly on deep philosophical theories with all the conviction of a tortured visionary. Watching her gesture with it for emphasis makes everyone present feel as if they were involved in a discussion that would be remembered as the point that some important social change hinged on.

She rolls her own in a ritualistic fashion in her room,

mummified with blankets, the window open to the sub-zero temperatures outside, music blasting into the room. She blows smoke out into the chilly air in a meditative fashion.

I feel certain that with a couple more weeks of baneful stares

will make her change her mind, slap a patch on her arm and decide to shape up.

Probably. Maybe. Or maybe not.