19th
on smoking
Somebody had a case of the Mondays yesterday and, as a result, did a little after-work drinking such that she is ever-so-slightly hungover at work. Actually, my work day was just fine, nice even, I just traumatized myself by trying to quit smoking again and had to have two cigarettes and three drinks before I could accept the fact that my cigarettes would be there in the morning, of course they would, it’s okay, ssssssh now. (Interestingly enough, I did not have a cigarette before work today.)
I’m kind of a weird smoker.
I’m a secret smoker, for one thing: people can know me for years and have no idea that I smoke. I also won’t smoke more than 4 or 5 cigarettes in a day unless someone died or something. Really. And I want to quit. And plan to quit. Apparently I’m just not ready yet. Since smoking cigarettes is absolutely the only “bad” thing I’ve done since my ex asked for a divorce, I’m not being too hard on myself about it right now. But I do intend to quit…soon.
My parents each smoked two packs a day until I was around thirteen or so. My mom smoked when she was pregnant. A lot. The nurses at the hospital were pissed at her because I was such a healthy baby and I guess I should have been all messed up. I smoked a little in high school, but mainly I drank. No, I blame my cigarette habit on Buddhism, not on my parents.
The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college I took a cultural anthropology seminar on Tibetan Buddhism. The class met twice a week for three hours at a time. We got one ten minute break. Everyone smoked but me…and soon I smoked too. The habit might not have taken hold except that I was living in a house where we sat out on the porch drinking and listening to Guns ‘n Roses every single night. It was a lovely summer.
The next summer I went to London where I worked a crappy job that involved wearing a headset. I discovered that I could take cigarette breaks whenever I wanted. I took a lot of them. Still, when I got home I cut way back on my smoking, and for the next few years I had a pack a month habit (really!).
I had a bad year right after college: I got dysentery and then my friend died and then I was unemployed for three or four months and just sat around doing nothing with my chain smoking roommate while my boyfriend worked. Lots of smoking!
When I moved to New York with my ex (then boyfriend) six years ago we both quit smoking. Good for us! He started again, but I didn’t, not for a year or so. We did this to each other a lot: one of us would quit then get dragged back in by a fun night out and the easy availability of cigarettes. I quit for good - I thought - in 2006. I don’t think I would have started again if not for The Big D. Let’s face it, when you have no appetite and consequently aren’t eating and don’t want to drink for fear of eventual dry heaves, smoking is a great vice to turn to. But I think I’m mostly over the trauma of having my husband leave me out of the blue (when I was making $1250 a month, I might add) and should be able to quit now. So what the frak happened last night?
