being bad

Every new year, I do something bad. I buy a pack of cigarettes. And then I smoke them.

I like to think it's a harmless brush with addiction. An enactment of poor self esteem. An anti-resolution. So when others are giving up on getting shape, eating better, and otherwise mending their ways, I'm "kicking the habit" and settling back into a safe pattern of decent self-care: working out, eating kale, and doing my dishes promptly.

This year, however, I've done something a little different. I've bought a second pack. So I can stand at my kitchen window at night, feeling the cool night air high in my nose, with a thin barrier to my brain. The stars faint in the sky as I pull down the glowing end of a cigarette into my lungs, pink and unsuspecting. Poor lungs.

A friend's ex-husband could exhale smoke on command. He must've had a pocket in his lungs that retained smoke. I have to admit, I'm a bit jealous.

I tried being good. I helped my 85-year-old neighbor buy a bra. This was no mean feat. I apologized to 4 different friends for infractions large and small. OK, mostly small. I offered support to my ex-boyfriend. I completed a Development Plan for my job, mostly following the rules. But frankly, it hasn't been very much fun.

Maybe there's a third pack in my future.