I used to smoke, actually, I picked it up for the dumbest reason in the universe -- to impress a guy I liked (hey, I was fourteen). It took me ten years to kick it. Even now -- well, not *now* on account of the baby and all -- but sometimes when I'm out having a few drinks I'll buy a pack, smoke less than half of it, and throw the rest away. I enjoy a smoke now and then, but I definitely am not addicted. It's more of a thing I do to enhance my bargoing experience on the rare occasions I have the opportunity to go to a bar.
I know this probably sounds freakish to you Cali-folks, but remember that I live in Tobaccoland, where not only can you still smoke in most bars and restaurants, but also in the Winston-Salem shopping mall.
I didn't really drink at all until I was 22, didn't drive until I turned 18, never lived away from home for college (in fact, didn't move out of my parents' pool house until 6 months before I got married). I smoked a little weed in high school but only for the brief period before I met Pedro when I was dating a guy who grew his own stuff. It was probably incredibly low-quality but I was too dumb to know the difference anyway.
What I really meant, though, was that my cautiousness and general disinterest in living dangerously began in early childhood. I didn't get a two-wheeled bike until I was ten; I never climbed a tree, played pickup kickball in an empty lot, or kicked open a wasp's nest to see what was inside. (Apparently, if Pedro is to be believed, these are normal things to do. I lived in the suburbs. The only wasps we had were the people who attended the Presbyterian church across the street.)
I also have never broken a bone or had a cavity. I never went to the emergency room until college, when I hacked a chunk out of my thumb with a chef's knife while working at the Chik-fil-a at the student union. (I've been to the ER three times in my life, and had to get a tetanus booster all three times.) I got stung by a bee once, because it landed on my glasses while I was playing in the sandbox and when I went to swat it away, I hit the stingin' end by mistake. But usually I wasn't outside long enough to encounter wildlife that closely. I mean, the highlight of my summer between third and fourth grade was reading the encyclopedia all the way through S. (It was a "children's" encyclopedia, probably aimed at sixth graders or thereabouts. Not by any means comprehensive. But still. Geeky.) I was not exactly the kind of kid Mom had to worry about coming home bloody and bruised. In fact, some of my most distinct memories of summertime as a kid involve her coming into my bedroom and insisting that I put down that book, for Pete's sake, and go outside for a while. When I was reading the Babysitter's Club, I had a two-book-a-day habit that drove Mom crazy.
And don't even get me started on Choose Your Own Adventures.
Author
Topic: Hey Paul... (Read 11748 times)