I was 16 years old when I puffed my first cigarette. I enjoyed watching my parents smoke. They looked so cool. Their brand of cigarettes was, of course, Kool. My “kool” parents!

My mother would have me light her cigarettes on the stove burner. This is how I was introduced to smoking. 

“Hello, cigarette!” I’d get the cigarette, light it on the burner, glance over my shoulders (making sure there was no one around), take a quick puff, gag, cough, and wonder “What are they getting out of this awful stick?”

Time went on and, as my mother would have me light her cigarettes, I continued to take that puff, hoping to get some pleasure out of it—or at least try to look cool like her.

My father’s routine of ingesting nicotine was to light up when he used the bathroom, and the matches were usually left there. That gave me a chance to practice smoking in the bathroom since smoke was still lingering in the air. When my mother didn’t have me light her cigarettes, I started stealing some from the packs that sat freely on the dresser in their bedroom.

I would wait for my father to leave the bathroom and, while my mother tended to her kitchen duties, I would sneak a cigarette and rush to the bathroom and light up. Taking that puff time and time again, trying my best to get some pleasure from it, really weighed heavily on me. Eventually, I did get the hang of it, but by then I was exhausted, beat and worn out—or “all puffed out.”

I had become a smoker—or at least I thought I had—looking so cool in the bathroom, smoking cigarette after cigarette taken from my parents. I could not purchase cigarettes on my own so I took advantage by taking theirs.

The following year, when my 17th birthday came around, my father waltzed up to me, wished me a “happy birthday,” tossed me a pack of Kool cigarettes, and said, “Here! Stop smoking mine!”

Little did I know I would become addicted to this awful stick for 17 years. Thankfully, I kicked the habit 29 years ago. 

“Goodbye, cigarette!”