Smoking is my brand
Explicit content warning: This blog post contains a section that is very dialogue-driven and therefore has language that some may find offensive. Reader discretion is advised.
As a content marketer, brand identity is always a thought when I draft copy for work. Everything from the editorial style to word choice — good content depends on consistency in tone of voice and how a company should communicate with the world around it. Words can shape an organization’s identity — making them a cornerstone of the brand.
When I first started this blog, I scoured the photos on my iPhone to find pictures of myself smoking to accompany each blog post. I even asked some of my photographer friends to take pictures of me smoking so I have a repository of images to choose from.
Every time I look through my folder of smoking pictures, I am reminded of the realization that smoking, in and of itself, has become my brand — it has become a part of my identity. It dictates not only my routine, but my perception of who I am and how I am perceived by others.
“I love smoking cigarettes.”
“Oh Ryan? Yeah, he loves smoking cigarettes.”
I have said, and have heard others say, those two phrases so many times. “Ryan” and “smoker” have become one and the same and have shaped who I am and how I interact with the world around me.
One weekend while I was in college, I went down to Boston to visit a friend who was attending Northeastern University. It was night time, and I was walking through the outdoor part of South Station’s terminal, cigarette in hand. As I was walking, I heard a familiar voice resonate in the distance, “There he is — I recognize that amber glow and trail of smoke anywhere.”
It was my friend, and despite him being about 25 yards away and it being dark, he knew it was me by the burning end of my cigarette. He knew it was me by the little billows of smoke that glowed when they hit the dim lights of the terminal.
Cigarettes have become just as much an accessory as my wedding ring or favorite boots — these types of accessories become visual cues of our identity. Whether it’s the amber glow of a burning cigarette or the outline of a pack in my shirt pocket, cigarettes have become a part of my aesthetic and a strong, visual identifier of who I am.
A loved or hated aroma
I personally, love the smell of cigarettes — unless it’s a menthol. If there was a candle that smelled like burning Camel cigarettes, I’d probably buy it. My car, most of my clothes, and many of my belongings all smell like cigarettes, and it’s a smell other people associate with me. It’s a smell that lingers and latches onto everything.
While I love the smell of my Camels, cigarettes have become a smell that I don’t notice all the time. Like with your sense of taste, smoking desensitizes your sense of smell, making the scent less pungent. For people who aren’t around cigarettes all the time, it’s often the first thing they notice.
About a year ago I made an internal move to a different department within my old company. As I walked into the office — right after smoking my pre-work cigarettes — my new manager greeted me at my new desk.
She said, “Good morning! We’re excited to have you on the team.”
Before I could respond she sniffed and then asked, “Do you smoke?”
My old manager wasn’t being judgmental, but it was the first thing she noticed about me. She wasn’t used to having a colleague smell like cigarettes because in that area of the office, there were no smokers — making me, the newcomer, a bearer of new smells.
This wasn’t the first time my smell was a personal identifier. Back when H and I were just flirtatious friends, we both worked at the same coffee shop. Co-workers we’re constantly talking to each of us individually about “what was going on with us” because our connection was very obvious.
On one particular shift, I was working with our mutual friend, Nicole, who was always rooting for us to get together. As we were closing up shop, she said, “You know, I think H likes you.”
I smiled and said, “Yeah, you and everyone else, huh?”
“Seriously!” Nicole said with a smile. “I think you two would be great together. You both already hang out practically everyday — plus you’re both always talking about each other.”
“Well yeah she’s one of my best friends. Of course I talk about her all the time. She’s the best. But I don’t know, I’d hate to ruin a perfectly good friendship.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes, “Whatever you say.”
Nicole paused, and then said, “You know, the other day she went on about how she likes the way you smell.”
I knew damn well that I had developed feelings for H, so I couldn’t resist and wanted to hear more. And I could tell Nicole was dying to tell me.
I laughed, and asked, “She likes the way I smell?”
“Yes. She said you have a distinct smell. To her you smell like soap and cigarettes — and for some reason she likes it.”
I smiled like a little kid and just responded with, “Well, isn’t that interesting.”
Now, H does not like when I smell like cigarettes. And her past affection for my smell was probably due to the exciting, flirtatious time in our friendship. Nevertheless, my scent was something endearing to her. We all have a certain smell, and sometimes that makes other people like us — and during that time, H just so happened to like my smell of soap and cigarettes.
An aura of confidence
A good friend of mine and former smoker has a great quote about an aura that some smokers can give off:
“You know, sometimes when I see a smoker, I can tell they have a little ‘f*ck you’ in ’em. Like, that person might tell someone to go f*ck off.”
The act of smoking around strangers is an assertive move. It’s communicates, “I’m doing this, and if you don’t like it, go somewhere else.” And after smoking for awhile, you kind of stop caring about what other people think. It’s unapologetic, brash, and rebellious — and for a person who grew up idolizing people like Keith Richards and Lemmy Kilmister, that vibe appealed to me.
Smoking, in many ways, gave me the confidence to not care so much about what others thought of me. It gave me the confidence to carry myself in a way that said, “If you like me for me, great — but if you don’t, there’s the door.”
“You and everyone you know are going to be dead soon. And in the short amount of time between here and there, you have a limited amount of f*cks to give. Very few, in fact. And if you go around giving a f*ck about everything and everyone without conscious thought or choice — well, then you’re going to get f*cked.” Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life
Mind you, this mindset can deter having tact, and if taken too far, can get you labeled as someone who’s inconsiderate of others. I don’t try to annoy people by smoking and realize that there’s a time and place for it. However, if there’s one thing that bothers me, it’s when people look down on others for their own personal choices that don’t affect anyone other than the person doing it. I have a problem with people who are bullies and get off on demeaning others for their personal choices.
The spring after I turned 21 was the start of a period of time where I truly didn’t give a f*ck. I was coming out of a breakup and despite my broken heart, I felt a new sense of freedom, and got into the habit of saying what I really thought and didn’t care who heard it.
One day during that spring, some classmates and I were out celebrating the completion of our junior year of college. We spent the night bar-hopping and getting hyped to take on senior year.
The last bar we went to had a patio that allowed smoking. We parked ourselves at a table and continued our night of drinking and for me, drinking and chain-smoking.
Next to us was a table of bro’s. The stereotypical loud-mouthed, meatheads who slammed back Michelob Ultras — the type of guys who were probably scheming to get a drunk girl to go home with them. Yes, I know, stereotypes can be unfair, but if there was a mold of a “bro” each one these dudes fit it like a glove.
After a while, I started to hear them periodically make exaggerated coughs when the smoke from cigarettes would naturally blow their way due to the wind. They were literally at a table surrounded by smokers. I kept making eye contact with one of the bro’s and just knew that at some point, he was going to try and start something.
All of a sudden, the bro I kept making eye contact with, blurted out, “Son of a b*tch! There’s f*cking ash in my beer.”
I immediately looked at him and he immediately looked at me, as he poured his beer out on the ground of the outdoor patio.
“It was probably because of you,” he said as he pointed his finger at me. “I’ve had to deal with your f*cking smoking all night and I’m tired of it.”
Seeing my blood start to boil and trying to mediate between me and the bro, my friend chimed in and said, “Alright man let’s calm down. We’re all just trying to have a good time — let us get you another beer.”
“No, f*ck that,” I interrupted. “We’re in a smoking section and it could’ve been any of the other smokers sitting out here. He’s just trying to start sh*t.”
“Say that to my my face, p*ssy,” the bro said to me.
I started to see red and looked him square in the face, “You’re in a smoking section, dumbass. There’s smokers all around you. If you don’t like it, go somewhere else where you can drink your sh*tty light beers without being around smokers.”
We went back and forth, cussing each other out, for another couple of minutes. The bro eventually started to make homophobic remarks about my skinny jeans and even started to say derogatory things to the girls I was with who would chime in to say, “just leave us alone.”
Not wanting to attract the attention of the bouncer, my friend was eventually able to somewhat diffuse the situation, and went into the bar to get the bro his replacement beer. When he came back outside, and as he was about to pass our table and deliver the new beer, I stopped him.
“Let me bring it over,” I said.
My friend pleaded, “Come on man, just let me do — “
“I got it. Just let me do it,” I insisted.
Reluctantly, my friend obliged my request to deliver the beer myself. I walked over, beer in hand and cigarette in mouth, and firmly placed the new beer in front of the bro.
“Sorry for the trouble, dude” I said with blatant sarcasm.
I took one big drag of my cigarette and then put it out in the empty ashtray on their table. The bro immediately got up and said, “You wanna do this? I’ll f*cking end you.”
I responded, “Do it, dude. Try me. How will that look? You socking someone in the face almost half your size in front of all these people. Make a move — I dare you.”
The bro replied, pointing his finger in my face, “You’re f*cking real lucky there’s people here, p*ssy. I could kick your ass without even trying”
“Yeah sure thing, tough guy. Have a good night — enjoy the beer.” I said as I walked away.
In retrospect, I was lucky. That guy was much bigger than I was and would’ve kicked my ass without breaking a sweat. Maybe it was the booze that gave me the confidence to stand up to him. But nevertheless, I can’t help but think that the little bit of “f*ck you” in me that I get from cigarettes, might’ve contributed to my confidence in standing up to a bully.
The vanity of smoking
There is something to be said about how smoking affects one’s self-image. Ever since I was a little kid, I have always thought that smoking just looks cool. Characters like Don Draper radiate this coolness and I doubt Draper would be as cool if he didn’t constantly have a Lucky Strike in his mouth or between his fingers.
Growing up playing in bands heightened my desire to be “cool” and smoke cigarettes. I wanted to be like all the older, crusty band dudes and thought I’d be more accepted as a musician by partaking in the “in between sets” smoke breaks outside the venue. It’s ironic because the very thing that gave me the confidence to not “give a sh*t” about what other people thought of me, was also started because I cared about what a particular group thought of me.
When you’re young and impressionable, this vanity is appealing because it’s your “in.” I’d tag along and make a point to try to smoke more than the older bands. I wanted to fit in and I thought that if I just acted cool enough, they’d watch my band instead of talking at the bar.
I’d chain-smoke to be cool and the long-term effects of that is being someone who feels like they need to chain-smoke to feel normal. The routine of going out in between sets at shows is now my everyday reality — feeling like I need to constantly go outside and light up. What started as a means to fit in, turned into a full-fledged dependency — an addiction to something that has no good objective value.
I’m on the cusp of 30 and feel winded all the time — my back and chest feel tight most of the day. I wake up with a bitter and dry taste in my mouth and feel like I’m an old man. Was fitting in with band dudes really that worth it? Was my own vanity worth the health repercussions I feel everyday?
The answer is obviously and definitively, no. I regret a lot of the choices I’ve made in my life and despite loving smoking with every fiber, I still regret picking it up in the first place. Despite this regret, it’s hard to imagine my life without cigarettes sometimes.
I’m dependent on something that’s destroying my body and for some reason, I still can’t get enough of it. Cigarettes have a hold on me and whether I like it or not, smoking has become a part of my own personal “brand.” It has shaped how I view myself and interact with the world around me.
Quitting won’t just be getting over an addiction to nicotine — it’ll be a fight for my identity.
Cheers,
Ryan
Brand switch-up update: I started smoking Camel 99 reds this week. I cheated a lot in limiting my cigarette consumption during the workday — I wanted to get as many blues in before I bid them farewell. The reds are tolerable, but I certainly don’t love them. Which is good, I guess.
