Charlie turned 30 yesterday, and to help celebrate his milestone birthday, I took him to Lola for the first time. We had a very nice time, and his “I’ve never eaten this before” food was the beef cheeks pierogi, while mine was quail.
For the record, quail is as delicious as it is adorable.
Despite lollygagging our way through dinner (which was hard, because I know I was inhaling food like it was a last meal), we still had some time left in the evening before we admitted that we were old and liked to go to bed early. Charlie turned to me as the bill came and asked, “How do you feel about hookah these days?”
How do I feel about hookah? I miss the shisha out of it, that’s what.
When I quit smoking, I quit all forms of smoking: cigarettes, cigars, hookah, the gamut. I was never going to kick my addiction if I held onto any portion of it, no matter how recreational. And because I loved hookah so much, I knew that I had to quit that, too.
So I answered as honestly as I could: I miss it, but I’m afraid of it.
Some people can casually smoke, just like some people can casually drink. People go months between hookah, people can have just one drink and call it enough. For smoking, I’m not one of those people. I know that I would eke back into hookah twice a week, four nights a week…the occasional cigarette…a pack-a-day habit.
Charlie was very understanding, and we opted out. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to say casually, “hookah?” and for me to answer just as casually, “why not?”