I started smoking when I was 12.
I quit for a while when I was with the rockstar ex – sometimes I still snuck some, but for the most part, I was attached to him and the fact that he would leave me if I smoked (or drank, or did drugs. Ahem.) meant more to me than appearing a bad-ass. I bought my first new pack the day we broke up. And a 26er and an 1/8th.
Anyway.
I’ve been happily smoking for the past decade. I even met The Ex, Isobel’s dad, because we bonded over cigarettes in the smoking area of the parking lot each of our warehouses shared.
Smoking’s done a lot for me: kept me thin, cut back on my appetite, gave me a low birth-weight baby who almost tore me a completely new one (just think, if I hadn’t smoked while I was pregnant, she would have been bigger, and then that 3rd degree tear might’ve been more severe)1.
It’s also helped my horrible blood circulation, yellowed my teeth more than I can solely blame a history of bulimia and poor hygiene for, aided in the crow’s feet and forehead creases I see everytime I look in the mirror.
It killed my father – something that I’m not altogether unhappy about2 – and it could do the same for me. Hopefully, my slate would be clean enough that no part of Isobel would get satisfaction watching me suffer if such a shitty fate were to befall me3.
Anyway.
Last night at 2:18am, I had my last cigarette.
This is the longest I’ve gone in a decade without one drag, puff or french kiss from the bum on the corner to suck the tobacco fumes from his lungs. I’m actually doing okay. The cravings haven’t been bad at all, and idleness is my only issue.
I think it’s because I’m attempting it for a completely different reason than I ever have before. And I’m using the patch.
I’m not quitting smoking because of my health. Or the health of my daughter (I think we both know I’m a little invested in that, once you get past the whole “smoked while pregnant” judgements you’re having).
It’s not to extend my life, or ensure that I can run a marathon, or that my bones stay strong, or decrease my risk of blood clot when going back on the pill (ps. I’ll never go back on the pill, FYI).
I’m not trying to or considering conceiving in a universe made up of reality, and I certainly don’t really give a shit about the colour of my lungs or my risk of heart disease.
And it’s not for the logical, either. It’s not because I’ve tallied how much money I could be putting into paying off debts or into Isobel’s education instead of buying smokes.
Plain and simple? I’m quitting because I’m vain.
I don’t want those fucking wrinkles. I want better teeth. I want to consider laser hair removal on like, 90% of my face and even if you think it’s an old wives’ tale, I blame smoking in part for the fine blonde hairs that cover every inch of it and the eating disorders for the rest of my body.
It’s a hassle, always having to remember to have enough smokes to last me through the night and into the morning until Isobel will be ready to leave the house – because I can’t run out at 11pm to get more if I run out. It sucks, having to rifle through my new purse that doesn’t have the perfect pocket for my pack and lighter like the old one did.
And the big ticket? I want a signature scent.
I used to have this friend, and any time you were around her, any time you went to her house, or anything she’d had around for a few days came into your space, you could smell her. She smelled of hippies, but in a soft, feminine way and just the scent catching you unaware could be incredibly soothing.
I want that. I want to walk into my apartment after a morning outside to smell my smell. I want people to link me with lavender and vanilla.
I need every nook of mine to scream good-smelling-girl, to replace that girl would was mocked in elementary school, called Smoky the Bear, because she always smelled of her father’s loose tobacco, the smoke of which he’d blow right into her face after taking a drag from his home-rolled aluminum foil pipe.
I don’t want to be that dirty child, anymore.
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Now playing: Fiona Apple – Never Is a Promise
via FoxyTunes
