This weekend, Easter, holds a different significance in my household. Easter Monday, two years ago, the husband and I quit smoking. I'd attempted to quit many times before with pathetic results. This time was different. The reasons were financial. We really wanted to buy a house and figured we could only manage it if we gave up cigarettes. A rough calculation showed that we were smoking the equivalent of the hydro, water and property taxes of a small house in T.O.
So, I said to myself, "This is my LAST cigarette." and bought the Patch. I discovered that having actually decided that I was really doing it, quitting wasn't that hard. There were the awful cravings of course, but knowing that I wasn't going to give in to them, made them pass more quickly. I kept telling myself,
"I am no longer an apartment dwelling smoker. I am a home owning non-smoker".
Except that two years later, I know that I am still, and always will be, a smoker. I just don't practice. I had my first smoke at fifteen. I snuck one of my mother's and took a walk. From the first I knew I liked it. From my early twenties on, I smoked just under a pack a day. That's 25 years as a smoker, 20 of them a heavy smoker. I liked the way the butt felt in my hand. I liked stepping outside of the office for breaks, the taste of coffee mixed with smoke in the morning and after dinner. Cigarettes and wine? Heaven. To this day, the sound of a Zippo being struck, turns me on. Really.
Oh, I don't intend to start again. I'm just reflecting. Yes, I'm healthier and smell better and have more cash. It's all good. I just miss it. Too bad that my wee passion is so expensive.
The cancer part sucks too.