There’s a type of celebratory feeling when you’re trying to kick a habit. For smokers, it comes in the form of the last pack — the last cigarette.
It associates a significant change with an added twist of enjoyment at the send off. A recognition, maybe even a sort of respect for what the habit has become.
This has served me well in the ups and downs. I’ve enjoyed it even. But regardless, it has to go. The problem with a romantic ending like that — It’s usually followed by a need for more. A sequel.
The last cigarette represents our just one more. It resembles a guilty pleasure. One that doesn’t need any more attention than we can give it in that particular moment. Here and gone, but while it’s here, might as well give it its time to shine.
Life is full of last cigarettes. It is full of moments where we conquer, followed by slips and falls, repeating histories, and more lasts.
This is what we do. We balance. We juggle. We fall and get up. We do it again.
When you learn a specific dance, you step on a lot of toes, you trip and catch yourself many times. That’s what we’re doing here — we’re dancing.
It’s scary, awkward at times and embarrassing, but we’re trying and maybe looking a little dumb while doing it.
The biggest thing I’ve learned from watching people have last cigarettes — if you’ve never had one, then you just don’t know the stakes. You don’t understand the struggle. You don’t know how difficult they can be to the final drag.
You don’t understand the fight it takes to get it down and the maintenance it takes to move forward.
But the best remedy that I’ve seen — you guessed it — love and support.
A last cigarette is only as good as the people around it, enjoying every last drag to freedom.