Secondhand smoke. You either love it or hate it. Sometimes it's both.
When I'm fully immersed in my new identity as a non-smoker, the smell disgusts me. I walk down Queen St, catch a whiff of secondhand smoke and immediately feel revulsion. How did I ever find that smell pleasant? How did I ever pump that poison into my body, many times a day, day after day?
But just as often, when my willpower isn't as strong, I find the smell utterly enticing. It smells better than I remember it tasting - it smells bloody good. Sometimes, as I pass a smoker on the street, I find myself deliberately inhaling deeper, trying to recreate even a glimmer of that buzz I used to feel when I puffed on a cigarette.