I love cigarettes. Somewhere in the politically-correct rulebook this statement is probably taboo, but I don’t care. I love to smoke! I think I would say, I consider my cigarettes like a best friend or like that long-lost love that always seems to show it’s nicotine-laced seduction when I’m at an emotionally vulnerable point in my life.

My tobacco charmer is loyal. He is always there for me when I’m stressed...or bored... or lonely...or when I just want to relax and hang out together over a cup of coffee. My cigarette pack seems to support me in my weight loss goals as I fall vulnerable to being a stress-eating, no-apparent-time-for-exercising student. And my cigarettes even seem to have a muse quality about them because, as a writer, my writing process seems to flow more freely and intrinsically with each puff of that ever-lit love in my hand. My cigarettes love to be consumed. And if I run out, “Cig” is always waiting at the nearest 24/7 store for my convenience.

My “affair” with cigarettes and I go way back. I grew up in a home where both parents openly smoked, when going to a restaurant meant you always had a choice to be seated in smoking or non-smoking. At 17, I found my own relationship with “Cig” as peer-pressure usually made the introductions at parties. By age 18, working full-time in the demanding job of retail management—as a newly graduated high school student and struggling to live on my own—I found my cigarette relationship having evolved into a pack a day. Our relationship continued on through the early days of my dorm-living, collegiate pursuits and then into my dating life with my now ex-husband as both of us smoked—sadly, one of the few things we had in common.

As newlyweds, my husband and I bought our first house together and we didn’t want the lingering scent of “Cig” staining our new investment as it did in our rental days. So, in 2000, he and I (then, 24) banished “Cig” from our lives and quite smoking. Financially, our lives were on the up and up and we turned our first home into a rental and moved to the nicer, east-side of Springfield, MO. My ex was doing well in his job and we had no children, so I started playing the role of Martha Stewart and leisure housewife—nesting, shopping, and at the gym working out every day.

On the outside, life appeared to be great for us. But in reality, something seemed to be missing. And that missing-something began screaming in my heart and spirit louder and louder in the last few years we were married--yet, I was too scared to admit it. To make this long-story short and to avoid sordid details, we very civilly ended our seven-year marriage. And guess who was there to get me through the uprooting of a life and identity I once had with my ex? Of course, my cigarettes! My rebounding love “affair” with cigarettes was back on and in full swing.

Now as a 33-year old, some would call this time in my life a “transition”. Still adjusting to life as a divorcee and financially struggling, I just graduated Summa Cum Laude from OTC with an Associate’s in Business and Marketing—confirming in my heart and spirit that I am capable of independently achieving my own goals. With that milestone done, I’ve begun my Bachelor’s at Drury University and juggling the beginnings of a career. And God-bless my cigarettes for being here to keep me grounded and preventing me from pulling my hair out through it all!

But it seems that with every great love affair, there comes a crossroad—a point when one’s own pursuits become impeded by the lust of the relationship, itself. As I’ve said, I love my tobacco charmer. But as I choose between immediate gratification and true self-fulfillment, I now ask myself, “As much as I love my cigarettes, did they ever really love me back?”