I turned 29 at the end of March. I went through the previous year not thinking about my age. Then I was pretty sure I was turning 28. Then I did the math. Then I was disappointed. And a little scared. I remember being in my early 20’s and thinking it was silly when people made such a big deal about 30. I’m trying to be better about allowing myself to embrace cliche. I’m trying to be better about letting myself tread ground which has already been tread. It’s unfortunate it’s so hard for me to be okay with doing something that is impossible not to do. I turn 30 next year and I don’t think I’m going to be forgetting my age this time around. 

As I get a little bit older it becomes more and more clear to me that we’re all just faking it. Cliche. I know this is a thing we all know. Or say we know. Don’t internalize. Everyone is just doing their best, no one has all the answers, etc. I’ve heard it since day one. But man. It’s one of those evolving truths. One that is so universal and true that the oversaturation of it in the zeitgeist robs it of its original profundity. It’s become status quo. It’s a truth which shed another layer for me only recently. I was thinking about cigarettes.

I’ve only ever smoked socially (sorry mom). Not habitually. Some circles are just easier to enter if you swallow the pride and bum the freebie. Don’t even have to inhale. It just provides a little credit when you’re trying to get to know someone. Alright. I’ll be real. I work in a difficult field. And it’s hard to explain to a client why their housing fell through and they’ll have to be on the street a little longer without the edge. Not the chemical edge. The offer. Solidarity, maybe. Don’t even have to inhale. It’s hard to write about this without feeling like I’m doing free advertising for big tobacco. Obviously I know it’s harmful. Ethically dubious maybe. Life is hard and we’re all faking it. The next layer to this truth unfolding before me as I exhaled my first puff.

“Oh.” I remember thinking, “It’s just because it feels cool. That’s it”. And not “feels” physically, by the way. Emotionally. This thing that is propped on the shoulders of marketing which historically centers the unfeeling, stoic, intellectual nature of adulthood (read: masculinity) is popular because of how it makes you feel.    

The realization was so disappointing I almost didn’t believe it. I almost had to laugh. It’s surreal. Goofy. It’s almost goofy enough to forget it’s harmful. There’s no secret to this thing. The mystery is nothing. It’s just because of how it feels to hold the thing, and see the smoke, and breathe a little fire. That’s it. It’s the same reason we did anything as kids. Because it felt cool. This is kid shit. I think maybe it’s all kid shit. Cigarettes are different from candy cigarettes in the same way adults are different from kids. They’re not really. Aside from carcinogen content.  

It was disappointing but not surprising. The same phrase I might use to lightly scold a kid who got into some minor mischief. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. It’s easy to get cynical about realizations like this. There’s nothing to this thing, really. Oz is smoke and mirrors. No one really knows what they’re doing, I guess. This product which has been so carefully and intentionally synonymized with the idea of adulthood has nothing under the hood. It’s faking it. I guess we all must be. No one has any answers. It’s bleak like this. Hard to find hope. But if you look a little deeper, another portion of this truth begins to reveal itself.

This little thing which has already lied to you once is lying to you again. Drawing you to a false conclusion which reinforces the status quo. A conclusion which encourages passivity. Inaction. No one knows what they’re doing. We’re all just faking it. Lies which exist to protect those who carefully constructed and placed them where those with hope for more may find them and be discouraged. Lies created by people who know what they are doing. It’s a double bluff. A puzzle meant to occupy and pacify while the ultimate truth remains: cigarettes are bad for you. Harm is being caused regardless of whether or not the thing is goofy. The people behind the harm are not. They are not passive. Not inactive. It’s too easy to lose the plot. To get so caught up on the nature of the origin of harm that you forget you don’t have to smoke at all. You traded in your solidarity for a well meaning but ultimately feckless, othering allyship. Hand The Other a cigarette and apologize about the housing. Convince yourself it’s all you can do. Your hands are tied and no one really knows what they’re doing anyway. 

          
Draped in mystique and stoic intrigue, marketed and sold by ill-fitted suits and lifted shoes, this snake oil reveals its truth to you and begs your ego not to spill its secrets. Your secrets now. The implicit contract is signed. Invest in and maintain the illusion of power and reap the benefits of that perception. You’ve been invited into the circle, grab a cigarette.