OK. *Deep breath*.
I’ve been meaning to write this post for days. Seriously. But every time I sit down at the computer to do it, the little man who lives in my head and is terribly addicted to that awful nicotine stuff whispers that, perhaps, there are other things that need doing that are far more important.
Bastard.
In fact, he’s trying to do it to me right now. Drag me away from the computer, put the thought of what I’m about to write out of my mind.
Excuse me while I go have a dirty, filthy cigarette. That should calm him down for a good 20 minutes or so.
Righto. *Cough* *hack* *splutter*. Annnnd….. I’m back.
My name is Lori, and I am a dirty smoker.
Have been for years now. Almost 16 years, if I care to think about, which I generally don’t. Depending on what’s going on, I smoke up to a pack a day. (I know, OK? I know).
I am horribly, wickedly addicted to these things.
I’ll give an example of just how addicted. Mark, the guy who is going to be my quit smoking guru, dared to call cigarettes a spade in his correspondence to me. That is, he said- cigarettes are dirty, disgusting and filthy. Undeniably true. But for one irrational moment there, I was offended on behalf of my cigarettes. Offended. On behalf on an inanimate object.
I’ll give that a moment to sink in. Shame, shame, shame.
Hey, it’s not my fault. Actually, it really is. But we’ll blame at least half of it on society, because that makes me feel better.
My dad- and most of his family- were smokers.
Smoking was cool. Not good for me, duh, I knew that. But so aloof and dangerous and sexy. Movie stars, they smoked.
As did all the Tortured, Pensive Artist Types I so admired, back when I was 13 years old.
Besides all that, I was 13. Lung cancer was the furthest thing from my mind.
So I pinched my dad’s ciggies, and taught myself to smoke. Taught myself to like it. When I was 16, working, and living with responsible adults who were happy to buy me cigarettes, my habit got worse. Much worse. Up to the pack a day we’re at now.
The only time I’ve been able to effectively quit smoking was during pregnancy. That wasn’t a trial, much. Smoking made me feel sick to the stomach. As did anything else I was silly enough to put in my mouth (Mind out of gutter, people, I don’t put those kind of icky things in my mouth- that’s how we got ourselves into the pregnancy situation in the first place.) I did however, keep up with my one cigarette, my one blessed hit of nicotine a day. And I would think about that cigarette for the whole 23 hours and 55 minutes that I was not smoking it.
Again, I know. Can we spell pathetic?
Anyway. I’m at the point where I’m sick of it. Every cigarette feels like it’s choking me, yet I keep on sucking them down. It annoys me, paying $15- $15!!– for a packet of cigarettes. It stinks. Both the cigarettes, and paying that much money just to inhale crap.
And, as if all that isn’t enough, I have two very small children. I don’t want them to grow up, thinking smoking is normal, or cool. I don’t want them to be smokers.
And I don’t want to die. That’s the crux of it, I think. I don’t want to leave my babies without a mother, any earlier than is absolutely necessary.
So. All that considered, I. Am. Quitting. Smoking, And… cue the deep, scary music. Oh dear holy God what the f*ck am I doing?Wish me luck. And wish the Man, and the kidlets, and the dog and the cat and any idiot or slow-walking person who happens to cross my way luck too. We’ll all need it.
Now, my mate Lucy is the one who officially talked me into this gave me a push in the right direction. She hooked me up with her ate Mark from ThinkSlim and ThinkQuit. And he, bless him, sent me his ThinkQuit pack. It’s pretty damn awesome. A book, DVD, a little mp4 player with all your stuff already programmed in. Muchly nifty.
And the coolest thing….? Well. Your little mp4 player comes in a little cardboard pack- that’s it there, in the picture, that is just like a packet of ciggies. I know, sounds odd, but, hear me out. Instead of taking your cigarettes, you take the box. Replacing a bad habit, with a good one. And it removes that problem of feeling like you are ‘missing something’, especially when you leave the house. Grab purse, phone, keys and little cardboard box.
Bloody brilliant idea.
So that’s where we at, my faithful tribe of jellybean-ers. I will keep you posted. October 9th 16th looks like the date (the 9th is the eve of Bridezilla’s my best mates wedding. it seemed to be perilous, given the amount of fagging on that will be happening.) I plan to be a non-smoker by my birthday. Lucy and Mark both tell me it will all be very zen.
Here’s hoping.
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