When a neighbor said the new restaurant in town had gone smoke-free, I was thrilled. My husband and I tried to eat there when they first opened. I’d called ahead to scope out their smoking policy. In the bar only and they have an excellent ventilation system, I was told.
     We requested the hostess seat us as far from the bar as possible. She assured us we’d never catch a whiff. She was mistaken. Before we had a chance to scan the menu, my husband mentioned he smelled fumes.
     Me, too. My sinuses had begun to swell, which happens when I’m near cigarette smoke. We made a hasty exit, apologizing to the server. Too bad she has to work in that environment, I told her. She didn’t answer.
     I’ll confess. I haven’t always been a tobacco-purist. In fact, I inhaled my fair share of Marlboro reds back in the day. For the better part of my 30 years as a smoker, half my life, I sucked on two packs of ciggie-poos a day and wasn’t gracious about it, either. The memory of lunch with a good friend still haunts me. She insisted we sit in non-smoking, so I chose a table right at the edge of the dividing line and leaned my chair backwards into the smoking section every time I got a yearning for what she called my coffin nails.
     I smoked when pregnant because no one told me I shouldn’t. Before the surgeon general warned of tobacco’s dangers, a doctor even recommended a friend of mine start smoking as a sure-fire way to lose weight.
     What began as cool in high school ended when I got wise to the fact my constant sinus infections and sore throats were due to the cancer sticks. After years of promising myself and God, "I’ll quit next Monday," the right Monday finally arrived.
     You know what they say about reformed smokers: there’s nothing worse. I’m living proof. And living proof that once you throw away your package of butts, your sense of taste returns. Which is why I was excited to hear our town’s nice eating establishment had gone smoke-free. I needed to hear it from a manager, though, because I planned to write this column as a thank you for their healthy change of heart.
     Unfortunately, it was the same old song-and-dance: yes, the restaurant is no-smoking, but you can light up in the cocktail area, which sits at one end of the dining room.
     Which leads me to ask: Why is our legislature dragging its collective heel on passing a state-wide smoking ban? Do we want to be the last state gasping for air? The Minnesota Clean Air Act, passed over 30 years ago, positioned the Land of 10,000 Lakes as a model for other states. Some of those states have gone smoke-free. Yet, we’re still sitting on our butts.
     My husband and I drive a half hour to eat in cities that have passed a ban on restaurant smoking. Where we don’t have to wheeze and choke. Or return home and strip in the garage, running inside to shower because we reek of someone else’s smelly habit.
     A television news reporter interviewed an eatery patron the day before St. Paul went smoke-free. The man and his wife planned to quit smoking the next day because they’d rather be with friends at their favorite hangout than miss them because they can’t smoke there. Maybe they’ll live a little longer, too.
     A hidden blessing. We should convince our legislators.