The last man I dated in college — and I hesitate to even call it dating, because I’m so selective that I rarely even go out to eat as a duo, just me and a fella — used to smoke American Spirit cigarettes.
He wasn’t American, I should say. I would hesitate to date an American who smokes, but I’m more inclined to forgive it in non-Americans. I really, really don’t like it — but I know that smoking in public isn’t necessarily frowned upon in some European and Asian countries.
Al fresco cafés are filled with chain smokers and, while I don’t take a romantic view of smoking, I feel a certain kinship with the smoking clown in Edward Hopper’s Soir Bleu.
But I do remember being a little appalled at the fact that, in the 2010s, people were still smoking as a pastime. Even then, it made me feel a bit uncomfortable — and I’ve never dated anyone who vapes, which I imagine would make me feel even more uncomfortable.
I’m not trying to be a hater. I just … I’m not a smoker. I find other ways to cope with my oppressive anxiety, like picking my hangnails and updating my blog.
Jamais Mayville 