THE PERFECT COUPLE

A friend pencilled me in over the weekend for a meeting in which I would teach him all about pipe-smoking. "Pardon my anality", he said as he did so several days in advance of the appointment, "it's the only way I can reasonably make time".
Anality? Boys, I think we've got a winner!
Pipe smoking is the perfect habit for neurotics. If you weren't so before you took up the habit, you will be soon.
It's all about attention to detail.

That probably explains why so few women take it up. There's no escape; if cigarettes are rebellion, and cigars deliciously self-indulgent, pipes are all about rigidly adhering to precise routines and minding minutiae. When women smoke, it's mostly about freedom. Charming sinful wildness.
No responsibilities, no obligations, just light up and let her rip.
Women often feel bound by rules and constraints.
Surely smoking should be just fun?

Either that, or subconsciously showing off one's sexual desirability.
A woman with a cigarette or cheroot just about screams out "available curves", or "luscious wet pouty lips", or even "look at meeeeee!"
Precisely like a soft flexible leather handbag from an expensive high-status manufacturer, or really bitching scarlet high-heels. Whereas a pipe says "don't bother me, I'm busy", or "there are more important things on my mind than your physique", or even "huh, what did you say, I wasn't listening".
And given that these messages are strictly meant for other women, even though unconscious, the effect can be extremely irritating.
Though primarily to other women.

It does not pay to unconsciously piss off the sisterhood.
They're a potently thoughtless support network.
And quite venomous when threatened.

A woman enjoying her pipe radiates an independent mind.
Much like a man with a lovely Louis Vuitton purse.
The effect on other women is the same.

I do not have a Louis Vuitton purse, and wouldn't recognize one if it came up and bit me on the tail. Nor do I own scarlet high-heels, really bitching or otherwise. I am, as I hope you are aware, a male.
My subconscious isn't wired to send out hierarchical signals to members of the sisterhood. At times I even doubt that it is capable of broadcasting any messages at all, since I do not wear team logo garb, can't stand sports, and seldom join in the rituals of male bonding so important to most men.
If you show off your purse at me, I will waggle my pipe at you.
We can both exclaim "ooh, nice!" without meaning it.
Neither one of us will even know the difference.
But we are sure the 'object' is tasteful.
We do not need to know why.
Both of us bought "it".
Surely it is good.
You and me.
We know.




Actually, I adore really bitching scarlet high-heels.
I've got a lovely pipe that goes with them.
We'd be a visually stunning couple.
Your sexy pumps, my briar.
It's probably perfect.

TOBACCO INDEX


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