There are times when I genuinely feel sad for smokers. It’s not often, but it happens occasionally.
The other night, I was at a restaurant for dinner and I found myself sitting next to a table of three women who were asking the waitress about locations where they could smoke. The waitress pointed to an outdoor patio where smoking was allowed; here in Charleston, there’s a smoking ban that wipes out the need for a hostess to ask you if you want to sit in the “smoking” or “non-smoking” section.
You can actually enjoy a meal without having to suffer through someone else’s smoke.
But these people were sitting there trying to decide where they were going to go drinking for the evening, and they were basing their decision solely on their ability to smoke: it wasn’t about the nicest location, or even which community they liked: those stupid little cigarettes were the only thing defining how they would spend their entire evening.
And while one of the girls kept whining about not being able to smoke, she never bothered to get up and go to the outdoor patio where she could have legally smoked. She wanted a cigarette, but not as much as she wanted to complain about not being able to smoke right there.
She seemed entirely uninterested in the feelings of non-smokers who want to enjoy their lives without having to breathe in her polluted air.
If people that deep into nicotine addiction aren’t sad, I don’t know what is. Clearly they haven’t the capacity to see how bad their addiction even is.
Otherwise, they’d do more to not smoke, not structure their evening around smoking whenever they want.