I’ve been smoking. There are very few things I’ve struggled with like I have with smoking. My first cigarette was a piece of spaghetti, mimicking the people I saw in movies. The next was a discarded butt in my yard…unlit; I collected them in my tiny child’s purse hoping to hide them from my mother. Never lit one. Embodying only an imitation of what I imagined a smoker would be: fabulous.
I always imagined myself as a smoker. The femme fatal sitting mysteriously in the corner of a dark bar with only the light of her cigarette illuminating the outline of a face. This fictitious character didn’t ever need to work out, this character never ate and she didn’t worry about early death from emphazema because she would probably die in an epic knife fight with a super villain. Alas, my dream is just that, and I am a real person with a REAL desire to be healthy and not just healthy: spectacular–and cigarettes are without debate making that more difficult.
Everything…including smoking sounds like a great idea after a cocktail. Smoking was always social, a way to talk to the sexy musician you’ve been not so quietly stalking for a year. He smokes–they all smoke. Smoking has always been a private, pensive, soothing action. Sitting by the pool in the dead of night watching the smoke dance, reading it like a psychic staring at tea leaves.
Yet, I know that I am much more clear and capable without it. Before quitting, I didn’t even know how often I smoked nor how horrible it made me feel, like waking up in the morning was some kind of punishment. Now, I know that if I smoke the immediate relief of any discomfort will be just that immediate and yet devastatingly temporary. Fleeting like the cigarette itself. I want one right now.
So I stop. If it requires this much debate/agonizing questioning, then is undebatable that I have a problem. So, I’ll wait it out. Eventually the anguish passes and it will be morning and I will be happy and proud and running up the hill my home sits on knowing that I chose that which was good.