I don’t smoke. I can’t. When I was seven my family and I were moving into a new house in the town I grew up in and the water was turned off because they were working on pipes in the basement. I was bored as hell and wandering around upstairs, looking for something to quench my thirst. I was probably being really dramatic about it too, stomping around on the floor in a huff and demanding someone go get me a Dr. Pepper. Eventually I found a Big Gulp cup on the kitchen counter and in my joyous fervor took a huge drink from it. It had about two inches of water in it, and people who were there working on the house had been putting their cigarette butts out in it all day.

It was, to date, one of the most psychologically scarring events of my life. It tasted…awful. Although it’s faulty logic, ever since then I’ve thought to myself, “That’s what diluted cigarette tastes like.” And I know I’ll never be able to bring myself to try the real thing, ever. Good thing I was emotionally stunted by something that also causes a slew of health problems and premature death; if I’d had a childhood run-in with bread or grass or the act of skipping I would probably care a lot more. As it stands, the fact that I will never smoke a cigarette isn’t an altogether bad thing. So thanks for that, universe.

Anyway, a byproduct of this is that even though I’m twenty-one days away from twenty-five years, today was the very first time I have ever purchased a pack of cigarettes. No, I didn’t overcome my baser fears and decide to pick up a smoking habit. In exchange for some chicken coconut curry and naan bread, I bought a pack of cigarettes and a Coke for my friend Sarah. When she proffered the cigarette/Indian food exchange I immediately started feeling like when I was seventeen and tried to sneak into the 2^nd Matrix movie because I left my ID at home. Mostly because, I’d left my ID at home. I immediately started to wonder if I could pass for eighteen. The answer to this is, of course you can pass for eighteen but if you go in looking like a twitchy little skeezebag the dude’s probably going to think you’re on crack and not sell you anything anyway. So, predictably, I went in looking like a twitchy little skeezebag. I grabbed a Mt. Dew and a Coke out of the refrigerators, and gingerly walked up to the counter as I practiced to myself how I’d ask for a pack of Marlboro menthol lights.

Hello, good sir! Mightn’t I trouble you for a parcel of Marlboro brand menthol flavored cigarettes of the light persuasion? Well good and such!

Sup, dude. Lay some fuckin’ Marlbizzle lights on me. And I wanna ride a mentholwave so that shit better have green packaging, yo.

GIVE ME SOME FUCKING MARLBORO METHOL LIGHTS RIGHT NOW OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS OUT.

Mental trial and error was getting me nowhere, and I knew that my empty threats would quickly be unmasked when I failed to produce a gun. I placed the sodas on the counter and squeaked, “And a pack of Marlboro menthol lights, please.” The cashier turned around and scanned the cigarettes for a second and replied, “We’ve only got 100s in those.”

“What?”

“We’ve only got 100s.”

OH GREAT. I DO NOT HAVE A CONTINGENCY PLAN FOR THIS SITUATION. ABORT! ABORT!

“Shit. Uh, I don’t know what that means. These aren’t for me. That’ll have to do, I guess. Sure, yeah. Okay. I’ll take them.”

Nice. Smooth. If anything’s going to convince someone you’re legal to buy cigarettes, it’s hyperactively admitting ignorance and claiming “these aren’t for me.” But he just laughed at me and rang up the caffeine and nicotine. I scooted out the door with my booty in tow and texted Sarah from the car. “They only had 100s. I hope that’s ok.” “LOL, np,” she replied.

I’ve been buying my own alcohol for almost four years now. I have no qualms about plopping a fifteen dollar handle of whiskey down on the counter with some ridiculous name like Cabin Man or Kentucky Mountain Walrus or Jimmy Cracked Corn. You know, the cheap stuff. And when I consume alcohol there’s always a distant, albeit extant, chance I’ll end up streaking down Lyndale with my clothes off or sticking my tongue into the ears of unsuspecting boys with beards or complimenting married men on the tastiness of their baseball t-shirts.

So what’s my problem with cigarettes? Cigarettes wouldn’t make me do dumb things. In fact, I’ve been told on numerous occasion that I should consider picking up a smoking habit just so I can be a part of the coveted smoking circles that form outside of bars while all the non-smokers are inside discussing how great it feels to be able to take a flight of stairs two at a time and not get winded. What stigma have I invented in my head that makes me incapable of buying a pack of cigarettes without looking like I’m trying to successfully purchase an eight ball? Does some deep recessed part of my brain assume that everyone around me knows I once downed ashy cigarette water and will tsk at me if I spend my own money on a pack?

I got home and Googled “types of cigarettes.” Turns out 100 means the length of the tobacco rod in the cigarette in millimeters. I texted Sarah to let her know what I’d discovered.

“Hehe, rod.” was her reply.

–Katie Sisneros