AROUND HIGHER EDUCATION: U. Miss: To smoke or not to smoke, that is the question

OXFORD, Miss. (U-WIRE) -- It's here. The one day of the year that we try to pretend isn't happening. I Today is National Smokeout Day. It's the day that all smokers dread; the day that their packs of cigarettes laugh mockingly at their imagined notions of kicking the habit. In high school, during the genesis of my moral corruption, National Smokeout Day was a big fat joke. "They want a smoke-out? I'll show them a smoke-out," was the general attitude we harbored then, as we puffed to our minds' content and our hearts' and lungs' woe. The following years found me with a hand cupped to my ear, listening to the logic of the healthy people. Then, the day would roll around, and an ad for the Smokeout would come on the radio, and wham! Cigarettes are flying out of the car window. No more smoking for me! It's time to be logical, sensible, healthy and mature. Two long hours later would find me in a brightly-lit gas station reassuring the cashier that I was, in fact, 18 years old, no matter how young I looked. Sad. But I made many pacts with myself, as smokers often do. I swore to myself that I would quit when I got to college. What was I thinking? Smokers, honestly, could you go to a fraternity party, study for a final or eat a great meal without the warm accompaniment of a cigarette? Freedom merely fanned the flames to light my cigarettes all the more quickly. Every now and then, I get frustrated with my relationship with my cigarettes. I refuse to label it as an addictive relationship, because I only smoke a pack or two a week. But it's enough to hinder any sort of physical activity that I undertake. I'm supposed to be in the prime of my life, and I can't even run for five minutes without begging God for mercy. Then there's the fact that my grandfather smoked and died of cancer, and my grandmother just finished chemotherapy. When you see the word cancer staring you in the face, it's hard not to get weak in the knees. Instances like these translate into incessant advisory whispers suggesting that I quit for good. I listen. I don't want to be 50 years old when I quit smoking. Your metabolism slows down as you age, so I'd be a 500-lb. walrus with a mouth full of juicy-fruit, just smacking away. No, I want to quit while I'm young and still have a shot at recovery with no irreparable damage. Quitting makes sense. Smoking is a stupid habit, honestly. Bad breath, lung cancer and yellow teeth just aren't chic these days. But there's that mysterious charm that not even smokers can fully explain. Perhaps it's the remembrance of that initial rebellion, when you told yourself that you were about to grow up. It's just a feeling of satisfaction, no matter what doctors and parents tell you. In life, we constantly battle with the cruel reality of logic. As we age, we sacrifice parts of our youthful idealism and recklessness because it makes sense to do so. We become old, in a way. To smoke, or not to smoke, it is a personal decision. Logic and common sense say quit. Youth and the Peter-Pan ideal say keep on going. Who you listen to is your own choice. It's all about growing up.

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