Confronted with a gaping hole in the budget, Kansas Gov. Mark Parkinson has proposed a tax hike on cigarettes. Parkinson wants to raise the tax from 79 cents a pack to $1.34.
Politicians tax smokers because they're outnumbered by nonsmokers. Taxes on tobacco also have the virtue of saving lives. According to the American Lung Association, every 10 percent increase in the price of cigarettes reduces consumption by about 4 percent.
My experience tells me the statistic is true. I was once a 4 percenter.
I had started smoking in college. A lot of college students smoke when they drink or are stressed about their coursework. I tend not to dabble in things. The route from being tobacco-free to someone who liked to light up before and after a 9 a.m. class was short and direct, in my case.
As a new but enthusiastic smoker, I imagined that I would discard the habit, along with other reckless behavior, as I matured. Yet by the time I reached my early
30s, doctors who touched a stethoscope to my back did not need to ask if there was a pack of cigarettes in a pocket of the pants hanging from the door.
In 2002, the state in which I was living raised the cigarette tax by 31 cents. For a pack-a-day guy, this was not a trivial sum. I was also dating a woman who did not smoke; not only that, she was spending up to two hours a day at the gym in order to avoid a thesis project. The more fit she became, the more ridiculous my habit looked to the both of us.
A year later, state of residence was still broke. So the governor proposed yet another tax on cigarettes. Enough, I said.
My cessation program cost $0. I went to the library and checked out a guide published by either the heart or lung people. The book said to pick a quit date. I did, reluctantly.
I tried to limit my cigarette consumption as Quit Date approached. I also tried to change my routines. Smoking in the car was out, for instance.
My nervous system did not like having its nicotine intake reduced. But it managed, knowing that the drug would arrive at meticulously spaced intervals throughout the day. Those cigarettes worked hard, I can tell you.
It was funny. Quit Date had not arrived, and I found myself becoming a snob. I'd sit at a stoplight and watch a fellow motorist light up. Look at that guy, I'd think. Monkey on his back. Of course, I knew precisely how many cigarettes remained in my possession.
I woke up on Quit Date and went straight into the shower. Another new routine: For a while, at least, I'd get my coffee on the outside. No more lingering at the kitchen table, Maxwell House in one hand, Winston Light in the other.
Going without cigarettes was not easy, of course. But I actually felt better on Quit Date than I had on the days before it. For me, anyway, smoking four cigarettes a day was harder than smoking none.
The buff graduate student and I were not living in the same city at the time I threw out my ash trays. She may not have believed me when I first told her that I had quit. But our next date was smoke-free, as was the honeymoon.
I have not had a cigarette since March 20, 2003. I know because Quit Date happened to fall on the day U.S.-led forces invaded Iraq. My hands miss the habit most of all. I keep unsharpened pencils at my desk and in my car. I suppose I always will.
The cigarette tax that motivated me to quit did not occur, incidentally. The state legislature rejected the governor's proposal. But the budget problems did not go away, and in 2005, the tax went up an additional 70 cents per pack.
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