How to Start Smoking

On annual physicals and my decaying body. Stephen Dunn, my hero. Pema and the Tao Te Ching. New gig at Slate!

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I had my annual physical last week, and after seven years of zero cigarettes, my doctor informed me that as an active 50-year-old man who doesn't drink or use drugs, my spirometry results reveal I now have the lungs of an…83-year-old man. 

"83!" I was disgusted. The paper gown suddenly felt itchier and colder. I love my doctor so much so that I travel to Santa Monica during morning rush hour to see him each year—but I felt betrayed. 

"If it makes you feel any better—you were at 91 two years ago." 

"91!"

Now, if I'd had those results seven years ago when I'd just quit smoking, I would not be surprised. Throughout most of my pack-a-day (sometimes two) existence, I already had a nasty hacking cough, the kind that I'd always blame on "severe allergies" to anyone within earshot.  By 40, I was wheezing in my sleep and finding it impossible to not get winded on uphill walks. Add in all the other daily chemicals (and bologna sandwiches) I was ingesting, and my insides probably looked like burnt lasagna. 

"This is horse shit!" I said, sweat building on my forehead. He smiled and ignored my protests as he continued to flip through all my prior check-ups on his Surface tablet. 

"Well, the good news is you still don't have emphysema." 

I was frustrated. Every time I see my doctor, I do this dumb bit where I try to convince him he should let me smoke cigarettes again. Then, he counters with this story.  

"If there's a news report that a meteor is about to hit the earth and there's no chance of survival, I'll set up two lawn chairs in front of my house, and you and I will smoke a whole pack together." 

He tells me this every time I see him for a check-up and every time I try to picture the chaotic scene inside my house: wife, children, and pets all huddled together, preparing to share their final moments with each other, only to have me abandon them so I can race over to my kooky doctor's beach house to smoke Marlboros with him before the planet gets destroyed.

"Well, what about cigars?" I ask.