If I weren’t Jewish and if I believed in a g-d of some sort, I’d probably go to Confession or something.
But, I am and I don’t. So, herein lies the solution…
My blog is my confessional and you are all in charge of my penance.
3 years ago I decided to do a really difficult thing. Quit smoking.
I did it.
I was on a smooth and steady wagon ride, destination Annoying Ex-Smokersville, population: millions.
I hated everything about smoking.
Gah, it’s gross. It smells disgusting. People look all squinty and wrinkly when they take a drag from their fag. It’s a totally grody looking and smelly habit.
To me, smoking equates weakness. Any addiction does. And I’m not big on weakness, especially my own. And ESPECIALLY one that stinks, looks stupid and causes wrinkles.
Fast forward a little over three years later.
This wagon ride I’ve been on…it got bumpy. Actually, I don’t think the rickety old Blue Streak at Cedar Pointe, the roller coaster that scares the crap out of me, can hold a candle to the bumps, hills and pot holes I’ve been traipsing over.
I got to the point where, well, I just couldn’t hang on. I got tossed, my friends. I got thrown from the wagon. Blame it on the road.
I broke down and started smoking again.
I started out bumming cigarettes from my hoodlum friends. Capris and Dajarms, to be exact.
Then, I found myself needing more than the occasional, my stress levels were too high to manage. I coughed up the 7 freaking dollars and bought myself a pack of Marlboro Lights. In a box.
Yeah…I made a lucky. What of it? I need all the luck I can get, it seems.
And here I am, 2 weeks later. $21 in the hole…dear G-D, cigarettes have gone up over $3 since I quit.
Every single stinking time I light up, as I’m trying not to squint or suck too hard…don’t want unnecessary wrinkles along with my lung cancer and emphysema, I hear my mother yelling at me.
“Melissa Beth…what do you think you’re doing?”
And every single time, I respond to that voice in my head by rolling my eyes. Still. “I know Mom. I know.”
I also wonder what the heck I’m doing.
Why am I doing this to myself.
I know, I know. I’ve quit more than once. I’ll do it again.
VERY, VERY SOON.
Because I know how gross smoking is.
I also know how very horrible and unhealthy it is.
The good thing is, I can’t stand doing it. I think there is just something about it that my nervous energy needs right now. So back to the secret hideout I go, where I hope my kids don’t catch me!
Hopefully, life will calm down soon.
Or the Zoloft will kick in full gear soon.
In the meantime, I’m trying to rebuild the broken ladder to get back on that wagon. Also, a sturdy seatbelt might be in order. Roads seem to get rocky these days.
Once I get through this , I don’t want to let any more bumps toss me.
So forgive me friends if I smell vomitatious. It’s a temporary setback. I’m trying to offset it with some lovely perfume my friend Jodie gave me. I think, however, I might end up smelling more like a French whore than a pretty, pretty Princess.
Just don’t tell my Dad I’m smoking again. He’ll ground me.
alternate ending: I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.