Avoiding imaginary emphysema

Apparently, I used to smoke. Or at least that’s what I told my 9 a.m. class.

I mean, it never really happened. I haven’t lit one up. Ever. I didn’t even buy a pack on my 18th birthday.

I’ll admit, part of me has always wanted to share in that sacred circle of communion around the outdoor ash tray. But I just don’t have what it takes to be part of the crowd – namely, a nicotine addiction.

I’ve had dear friends who have smoked. Some have quit. Others haven’t. And I love them all the same.

I don’t think smoking makes you a bad person, just like I don’t think not smoking makes you a good person.

It just hasn’t been an issue for me until last Monday.

I was in a discussion-based class. Perhaps you’ve had one. There’s an instructor who functions more as a moderator than a lecturer. The syllabus most likely outlines a plan to award participation points to active contributors.

Generally, the professor will ask that the desks in the room be positioned in a circle, so as to facilitate exchange.

But I just think this makes it more awkward when you stare down each of your classmates during that collective silence after every question.
This particular morning, the discussion was exceptionally unfruitful. Simple questions (“Tell me about a time in your life when ... ”) asked by an eager and open instructor were dangling in the air.

And so, out of frustration, out of boredom, out of sympathy – who really knows where it came from – I told a story of how I quit smoking.

I guess it was tough for me. Supposedly I kept the habit to spite my parents. I think it finally got the best of me when I couldn’t afford it anymore.

Anyway, I guess I’m glad I quit.

It’s good I quit before having the kids that I made up in my afternoon class. I’d hate for them to see me like that. And I’m glad my lungs weren’t totally tar-filled when I ran with the bulls in Pamplona. That could have been dangerous.

I rather like these fictionalized versions of myself in class. Something has to keep stuff moving when no one’s engaged with the material. Maybe this could catch on.

The thing is, now I have to remember in which classes I smoke and which ones I don’t. Are you the people who think I work as a certified electrician each summer? Or were you the pastry chef group?

I guess it would give me something to take notes on during a bad discussion.
Or should I even bother? Do people even pay attention to what other students say in a seminar-style class? Or are we just trying to say what the professor will like, despite what we think?

I know not everyone reads. And I’m supposed to learn from them?

Oh well, I guess I can always tell you about my year in Antarctica.