The Instructions

Read them...

Nobody ever read up on how to smoke a cigarette, did they? Or, chew gum…

Trying to make gum as cool as cigarettes? Photo by Daniel Monteiro on Unsplash

When it comes to smoking, more than likely, they observed others doing it (with no intention of actually taking up the filthy habit at the time): The seasoned smoker under casual study would take that oblong cardboard packet encased in cellophane—their fingers nimble and experienced—and a finger nail would languidly locate the red tear strip tab and slice off the top part of the shiny wrapper with a snappy wrist action. Then, going through the automatic steps for the umpteenth time, they’d prise open the lid (with a thumb, with a finger) to pull out their next cigarette. Each smoker has their own particular manner but they all, in the end, put that orange faux-cork filter in between their lips, ignite the tip of the tobacco-filled paper tube and inhale that shit down.

So by the time you’re ready to try a cancer stick for yourself, you know roughly what to do. You may even know your way around a tear strip already because they have those encircling the tops of chewing gum packets but you know nothing about what will happen when the toxic smoke enters your virgin mouth, throat and lungs. That’s the steep learning curve section of the experience; people choke, they splutter, cough with a mixture of panic and disgust, and foreswear ever trying it again. Until the nicotine takes them. There are, of course, no instructions on the packets for the operations I have outlined above.

This particular lack, however, does not mean that we may go about our lives without reading instructions that are supplied. Nevertheless, that’s how most men choose—or appear to be compelled to—go about their business when a new task is presented to them. It is mostly men, isn’t it? Or is that a myth, I’d love to know—yo, women: Are you equally afflicted by this malaise? Please do leave a comment below…

I now turn to a mash-up situation; that of the nicotine infused chewing gum. First, let’s put aside the fact that academic papers are being written about chewing gum base due to the murky nature of its composition in commercial products that are relentlessly chewed by billions daily, including me. This is worrying in and of itself, especially if you happen to dig deeper (after a friend sends you a petition about plastic in chewing gums, let’s say), to discover the uncomfortable truth about the hubba hubba humblegum:

The U.S. Food and Drug Administrations describes gum bases as complex mixtures typically comprised of the following categories of ingredients:

1. Elastomers:
   These provide the chewy, elastic quality of gum. Traditional formulations used chicle, the coagulated milky latex of the sapodilla (Manilkara zapota), while modern gums use synthetic elastomers:

   • Styrene–butadiene rubber

   • Polyisobutylene

   • Butyl rubber

2. Resins:
   These give gum its adhesive properties and help with texture:

   • Terpene resins (such as rosin derivatives)

   • Hydrogenated resins

   • Ester gums

3. Waxes:
   These contribute to the final texture and consistency:

   • Paraffin wax

   • Microcrystalline wax

Elastomers, resins and waxes. Okay. Basically, manufacturers don’t list ANY of these items in their ingredients and simply state that they are using a “chewing gum base”, an opaque decision that I find extremely suspect, health-wise. What’s probably worse is that the masticated gum that we—en masse and frequently—unthinkingly extirpate ends up in the environment as yet another source of plastic waste.

Following my initial shock about this sorry state of affairs in the realm of the common gomme à mâcher I reached for my packet of nicotine gum, having kicked the smoking habit years ago but not quit the nicotine, and interrogated the ingredients list to confirm that indeed they did not list elastomers, resins and waxes; only the old “chewing gum base”. As I dumbly absorbed the health and environmental impacts of my (nicotine) gum chewing habit, my eyes alighted on the instructions, which I had hitherto ignored, on how to use the nicotine product, except they are called “directions” because, I suppose, nicotine gum is a type of medicine. Anyway, the packet directed me, the user, to “1. Chew slowly until taste becomes strong, 2. Rest between gum and cheek, 3. Chew gum when taste has faded.”

Apart from the potentially confusing homonyms, these instructions are succinct and a minor revelation. You see, previously, I’d been chomping the gum without pause until my body detected that the active ingredient (4mg of that sweet, sweet nicotine) had been exhausted and I spat out the spent gum and popped in another one. This was obviously a mistake since following the simple directions yielded a longer lasting effect and you don’t get a sore jaw. Plus, these things are expensive.

Not reading the instructions—this is not the first time I have made the same mistake¹—had therefore dramatically increased my consumption of the expensive product and, notwithstanding the fact that I am considering chewing gum now as a nasty plastic pollutant that I ought not to be using at all in any form, made me realise how resistant I am (we all are, no?) to reading the bloody instructions, which is probably why IKEA doesn’t use words at all in its manuals.

By the same token, let us read more of everything—books, blogs and all the rest—as we give increasingly large portions of our minds over to the alluring, nay bewitching, shortcuts of the audio-visual.

1. My other not-reading-the-instructions-mistakes include, but are not limited to: trying to fill a kitchen blowtorch with butane, operating an air conditioner, and fixing a vintage watch.