Without fail, at some point every few years I think to myself "Man, I would be totally down with being sick right now". It's usually been a long time since I was last sick (in this case, I haven't been sick for 16 months), and I've forgotten precisely how miserable being sick is. Yet, for whatever reason, the thought of making sweaty love to my trash can and a box of kleenex doesn't seem so bad when I start thinking about how much I'd love to sit on my ass for a few days. My body is usually quite quick to make this wish come true, although I've begun to wonder if that's just the little microbes playing mind control games to get my guard down. Clever bastards.

Still, being sick does leave me with renewed appreciation for being healthy, which is something I've come to ignore as I keep smoking. It's hard to weigh consequences that are so distant against a pleasure so imminent, particularly when most of my smoking peers don't think much about it. And that, for me, is where most of the enjoyment of smoking comes. There's much to be said for the communal enjoyment of drink and smoke, which is how I started, in England.

The image of smoking in my mind plays a role, as well. I like defying the standard cliches. For many non-smokers, there's a very strong lack of understanding - they only know the nasty second-hand vapors that linger around the exits of every building, or the thoughtless smattering of crushed butts on cement. Careless addiction is certainly a feature of the demographic, but I like being able to understand that, and I don't really mind the association.

Call me crazy, but I've always wondered what the experience of real addiction would be like. A friend at L'Abri shared some powerful stories about his addiction and subsequent time in rehab. That's a reality I'll never experience - and while I'm grateful, I also wish I could truly understand what he was describing. His descriptions were impossibly dark and grotesque, and try as I might, I couldn't empathize. I had absolutely nothing to offer him beyond goofy antics and a pre-packaged idea of what God could do for him, even as I struggled to figure out what exactly God was doing for me. His experiences far overwhelmed my arrogance, however, and I was ultimately left speechless in the face of a reality that Christianity could not resolve.

Smoking's certainly a weak attempt to gain access to that understanding, but I can't say it's been an experience I've regretted. Now that I've learned something, I should probably kick the habit.

Guh.