In honor of all our still fresh NY resolutions, I offer you the overview of one man's first steps in quitting smoking. I quit in the 90's, started again and then in 2000 quit for good. Nine years ago now, baby. Not one single puff since. It went like this...
To make a long one short, I decided to quit smoking. Again.
I quit a few years ago, started up again, and have been scared to quit -- afraid of failing for good, I guess -- if you can imagine such a thing. Now, I'm ready to do it for good. I think.
Besides the obvious benefits, there is one other. The missus and I operated under this uneasy truce; she hated me starting up again, as well she should.
"Kevin, are you stupid?" she asked the day she found me out.
I just muttered.
Finally, she wouldn't bring it up, and I wouldn't do it anywhere around her or the house. Sort of like gays in the military, don't ask, don't tell, and all. She knew I was, and I knew that she knew I was, yet I felt compelled to hide it. The smoking I mean. Never been the other thing. Curious about it, I think I'd be good at it, but it's not for me. The. . . uh. . . military, I mean. Anyway, I decided to quit. Here's my account of the toughest days, the first three.
Jan 10, 2000 - I decide the quit day is 24 January. That's the thing to do, pick a day somewhat in the future, and make it your quit day. I tell everyone, post a note on a bulletin board at work, and prepare to enjoy two weeks of guilt free smoking. 'Cause I'm quitting, see? So everyone is either supportive, or gunning for me to screw up. Either way is very motivating and for the first time in three years, no one is bugging me to quit. Because I am.
Jan 23. Day before quit day. Today, I will smoke four hundred eighty-six cigarettes and by bedtime, smoke will be billowing out my eyelids. I'll sound like Wolfman Jack. I'm ready, though. I've prepared myself, burned all my bridges, and tomorrow I wake up a non-smoker. I drift off to sleep.
Jan 24. Ahhh! #$%*! What did I do? Why today? Tomorrow would have been a much better day. Ahhh!#$&*!
(Driving to work) Okay, okay, I can handle this. Almost there. Ah, the traffic signal at Park and Preston. The light I always catch red. Ha-ha. No matter, I always seem to catch this light red. I always light a...Ahhh! #$%*!
(Driving home) It was okay. Operating on adrenaline, most anything is possible.
Jan 25. Really, I mean really, craving. Just time for a small breakfast -- eggs, bacon, grits, hash browns, biscuits, gravy, oatmeal, waffles. . . .
Drive into the gas station, and whip past this slow idiot ("Hey, buddy, it's the little skinny pedal on your right!) and up to the pump. I choose the pay at the pump option, and then go to pay inside. Just because I can. Too bad.
Long as I'm here, I might as well get this small package of Zingers. . . lemon or chocolate, lemon or chocolate. . . . Pringles, gum, Diet Coke.
"Sir, you want all three kinds of Zingers?"
"If that's okay with you? Lemme know, and I'll put some back. I thought the idea was..."
"Oh, that's right, you quit today, right?"
I just growl.
Lunch time, chicken fried steak, mashed, corn, rolls, salad, and a chocolate shake. Boy, hadn't a shake in a long time. Yes, the good things in life. All told, this is going okay. No troubling side effects -hey pass me that piece of pizza please, no, the big piece - and ask around: have I been grouchy today?
Jan 26. Takes three days for the nicotine to leave your system, and then it's all psychological after that. I've been drinking so much water (helps, supposedly), folks must think I'm seven months pregnant I'm running for the john so much.
I hate food, I hate my car, my job, my hair, this dumb song on the radio, but it's okay. Again, the planet knows I've quit, so they put up with me. Kinda nice to be a #@$%*! and have people overlook it for a short while. Later today, I may push the #@$%*! envelope and try being a big #@$%*! and see who dares complain.
Time to head home. The drive is great ("Up yours, #@$%*!"). I pull in my drive, just missing the cute little birdie. Miss him when I back up, too, the quick little #@$%*! Growls and spittle flow out of my mouth, and I make for the front door. If I can just. . . . and then I hear it.
Fire and brimstone, thunder and that trumpeting noise. I ease in the door and find the kids cowering in a corner.
"What's wrong?" I ask the missus. She's sitting on the chair, wiggling her foot in that way people do when they're angry, and smoke is rising off her head.
”It's called 'pre,' okay, as in before, and if you value your life . . . " and the rest is indecipherable as her head spins round and round. Godzilla and Rodan, the two of us.
A few hours later, with me on day three, jamming cookies in my mouth, and her, just before day one, the conversation goes like this:
(You know, I can't even write it, not even with punctuation. Think for a minute; me on three, her on pre. . .does the word Armageddon paint a #@$%*! picture for you?)
Jan 30. On vacation. It's easy now, being on vacation. Everything is easy on vacation.
So, lesson here is quitting smoking involves lots of food, unbridled cussing, and folks will put up with any behavior you can dish out -- at least for a time.
You should quit more often.
