Outlaws

Once upon a time, you could watch a movie, the news or your favorite television show, and someone would inevitably light up a cigarette, hold it elegantly between their first and second finger, and no one would say boo about it. The cigarette was often followed by a scotch or martini, thus completing the image of worldly, cosmopolitan jetsetter. The lights would just illuminate the otherwordly wafts of exhaled smoke which would linger affectionately around Walter Cronkite's head, and one would think "Gosh, he's so sophisticated! When can I light up?"

Not so in our supposedly more health-conscious times. I was walking into my office this morning and as I passed the unofficial smoking area, which was either in front of the restaurant or right outside the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how the smokers were positioned. One, a policeman, was lighting up next to a bush, looking positively shady, and several others were in random spots surrounding the entrance. There were a couple leaning against the wall, one leg bent to lend a more deviant vibe to the scene. These people looked neither cool or sophisticated, but rather more like outlaws pondering their next crime. What would it be? A puff between conference calls? Perhaps one right after lunch? Or maybe one in the car on the way home to ease the day's tensions away?

Alas, the long-ago image of elegant, satin-gloved women and smartly dressed executives snapping open monogrammed metal cigarette boxes is pretty much over. I suppose this isn't a total loss, but I do wish certain elements of those bygone days were still around. Perhaps I'll try and get everyone to wear hats and gloves again. It' s a start, anyway, since we can't drink martinis at work. Damn!