Smoking is popular again, which is inconvenient for those of us who’ve already quit 30 times in the last 30 years. I was 16 in 1995 when cigarettes represented a grunge fantasy and therapy was something rich people did between divorces. I’d adopted the flannel shirt, greasy hair vibe because my parents forbade me to dress like Britney Spears in the Baby One More Time video. My teenage angst was born out of not knowing how to exist in the space between innocence and oncoming adult life. The zippo lighter I got from my boyfriend was monogrammed with my initials, emotionally marking smoking as the only coping device I needed. Everyone was lighting up back then — in the teachers' lounge and below the stadium bleachers. Ashtrays were standard in the armrests of airplanes and cars. People smoked in hospital waiting rooms, and the cigarette rack was eye-level for us…