Too many times before

So, the thing is I’ve never smoked. Not once, not for one time. I’ve never even tried. And I’d like to say that it never happened just because of my fierce convictions about how stupid smoking is. But I’d be lying. To tell the truth, most of my life I think that I didn’t smoke not only because I hated it’s simple existence as the most stupid act someone could ever do but also because I was scared of trying. I think that most of my life I missed out on lots of things just because I was afraid of experimenting. I’ve never been a fan of anything new and I’ve always been terrified of making a fool of myself for being so explicitly naïve about things I didn’t know.
Anyway, thank God for my fear of new things, which kept me away from being even if just a little bit curious about things I always saw happening around me but that I always kept at a safe distance.
Nowadays that I consider myself quite the fearless girl about mostly everything, I’m proud to defend my convictions not only with the stupid excuse that I never had the guts to try something new but also with that wonderful credibility that is given only to those who can defend their beliefs by telling they’ve never, ever, crossed them and that they most probably never will. And this, regarding the smoking situation, is as true as can be when it comes to my personal beliefs.
And this is not a subject I like to refer to very often. As a matter of fact I find it quite rude to explicitly talk about things that happen everyday and with everyone around me as if they didn’t exist nor feel uncomfortable by my opinions.
I’m not against smoking. I’m not against being in places where people are smoking.
What use would it be? I think most of the people I care about still smoke. And I don’t mind, I think it’s up to them.
But I’ve had this opinion though, that deep inside, if you smoke, you have to be a little, even if just a little tiny bit, stupid. And I don’t mean to offend anyone, mostly because lots of dear smoking friends of mine will be reading this if they have the patience to read a text in English, which by the way has no plausible explanation besides the fact that I’m tired of officially not having anyone in my life to practice my English with.
Moving on, the thing is, smoking doesn’t make any sense.
At least voluntarily. I mean, probably my lungs have had just about as much smoke inside them as the regular next door girl’s lungs who happens to smoke every once in a while.
Just this evening on a football match I think I’ve inhaled just as much smoke as the guy sitting next to me who was supposed to be smoking but who actually forgot it every time something deeply unfair happened on field. Which, by the way, happened every 3 seconds. And I have to admit that when it comes to football I can recognize all the players by their names and I can keep up with most of the game by myself without having to recur to neighborly explanations, meaning mostly my brothers who sit next to me. Still, I have to admit that there are some of those moments when all the stadium just seems to be ready to burst out in fury about something terribly horrible that just happened on field, most of the times some unfair decision or lack of it made by the referee, and when these things happen the truth is I most often just turn my head in deep disapproval so that everyone around me doesn’t get how much I’m not understanding what all the fuss is about.
I’m great at it, by they, way. I nod my head with just the perfect depth and speed as if I’m really focused on what’s happening. I’m great at clapping every once in a while as well just because everyone around me is clapping. I’m just not so great with the whistle thing. I’d love to whistle, that’s a fact. And I’ve tried really hard, like forever, to do so. But I think I’ll actually give up on it. Those are the kinds of things that most often get me obsessed during a match. I love to watch how everyone behaves. When they stop singing, why they start when they start and what gives them the strength to cheer so loud on one second and then turn into real destroying monsters just the second after. I think that’s why I really don’t get some of the things that happened, I think I distract myself with the wonderful human component that exists inside a football stadium.
Not that I think that a stadium filled with 50.000 people is half as complex as my own mind. No. That would be reducing myself to a simplicity that I can only dream of achieving while a live my life with this perfect certainty that I might be just as complex as one of those impossible math puzzles that I will always hate.
Going back to that smoking situation, I think I was just spilling out some of this mismanaged anger I’ve had inside for a while. Nothing personal, I swear. On top of it, my attitude concerning this new found cancer situation in my family, which I think I’m handling quite well considering it’s the third time we’ve been through something like this in the 21st century, has been described by my mother as the worst ever and as being typically my father’s daughter.
One would reckon a marriage mustn’t be in it’s most happiest days when a wife decides to argue with her own daughter for growing up to be like her husband.
But anyway, I’m being accused of acting somehow insensitively about this situation, and by insensitively she means by not crying day and night and still having my hopes up on a recovery that still seems quite possible to me.
I’m not insensitive. I just think I’ve been here too many times before. It’s just disgusting how we already have our own routine for these situations. The hospital visitations, the family dinners with a certain tone of voice, the concerned look on everyone’s eyes and the way the phones ring ten thousand times more often that usual but with nothing new to say. It’s as if we already have this “cancer mode” button we can just turn on and play this all situation all over again. It’s sick. I’m sick about it. But it doesn’t mean I’m insensitive, though. I’m not.