Fumez-vous?

Dear Diary,

Until recently, there were few things that could comfort me as effectively as smoking a cigarette. When I'm worried, paranoid, stressed, sad, or otherwise laden by negative emotion, nothing gives me the same relief as that initial inhalation of tobacco. Even the act of swiftly drawing a cigarette out of my pack releases the first sense of placidity.

Not to worry, I'm fully aware of the health risks, and as soon as I could find an adequate substitute for that breathtaking (pun intended) exhilaration of my addiction, I always planned to quit. Perhaps the reverse will happen first, though.

Allow me to explain: A few minutes ago, I was idly flipping through the channels, when I came across an informative show on TV. Numerous beauty and style experts were glitteringly presenting the facts of being fabulous. Stunning accessories and perfectly-applied make-up paralyzed my thumb mid-channel change, and I was left with no choice but to listen carefully to the expertise being doled out. Let's face it, I could use some assistance in being more elegant, despite the indisputable glamor of my sleepwear (handcrafted by my grandma and the envy of all who've seen it).

Right when I tuned in, they began exploring the villainy of smoking and its history in Hollywood. The emergence of Mad Men, along with its depiction of pre-anti-smoking 60s American life and thus its portrayal of characters indulging in my favorite sinful yet sexy "bad" habit, has broken the taboo of including cigarettes on the no-longer-so-small screens in our American living rooms. The contributing opinionators commented on the differences between the sensuality demonstrated by female characters when smoking and the masculinity of the male smokers' approach. A barrage of images of actors through the ages turned my TV into a strobe light and left my hand reaching reflexively for my pack.

Just after experiencing that unparalleled sensation of peace, I was jolted back into insecurity as my eyes focused on the cigarette clamped between my greedy fingers. To my wide-eyed horror, the image I was registering was not of a dainty, tantalizing, feminine hand with outstretched fingers, dangling a cigarette lazily and indifferently. No. Instead, my hand could easily have been replaced by Clint Eastwood's or some other manly man's.

How am I supposed to smoke in public, now that I know that I smoke like a man? No wonder men never approach me when I'm outside smoking. They must think I'm either a maneater or simply a man. What a crappy situation. Yes, yes, I know it would be good for me to quit, but I need a cigarette more than ever now, yet I can't smoke one for fear of being judged by onlookers for my cowboy-esque mitts, manhandling the cigarette. Maybe if I start smoking Virginia Slims?

Can you spell conundrum?

For the time being, I'll be hiding in my car, parked behind some trees because I refuse to smoke inside my house, and I need to decompress.

Withdrawal-endangeredly yours,

ChainsmokerInHiding