I quit smoking.
I have been on the wagon, more or less, since the second of July. This is not very long except for the people who know me and I understand exactly how much I love to smoke. I am not one of those people who wished she could quit but was addicted. Smoking is my social outlet, I enjoy it. In fact, I have made almost all of my friends smoking. It’s how I regulate my breathing when I’m upset. It’s how I wind down after sex.
But like most other things in the world, smoking is for rich people. I can’t keep up that level of money sink for a hobby. Coffee at least makes me functional. Cigarettes are a comfort blanket that I can’t afford. Do you know how drunk I could get for what I spend on cigarettes? I’m mostly kidding.
I miss them. When I have a good conversation, the kind that makes me want to sit up and lean into the person talking, I want a smoke. When I’m driving around with someone just bullshitting, I want to smoke. That kind of lifestyle is lovely to me. I adore everything about it. The intimacy and art of the act, the running outside the bar with a few people to just hang about and be apart from everyone else and forge relationships. I miss that.
Still, the money is nice. Which is how I judge everything lately.
Chantix, by the way, is evil and made of miracles at the same time. I quit smoking…and I’ve never been so sick in my life. Half the reason I am staying quit is because I dread rolling around in the fetal position from that medication again.
But smoking is one of the trappings of my previous life that I miss the most.
Adulthood. Sucks.
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