Chandler: Ok, I’m just going to go outside.
Ross: Whoa, whoa, hold it.
Chandler: Don’t worry. I’m not going to run away again. I just want to get some fresh air.
Chandler: [exits into hallway and lights a cigarette] Ahh, fresh air…
Why God WHYYYYY!!!! I was doing so well! I was being so modestly smug, telling people I had quit smoking for good, that it was disgusting, that the smell now annoyed me, all with a composed winning smile, a poised demeanor, a whole attitude that screamed “Look at me! I am so great! I quit smoking without a patch! Where are the photographers? why isn’t my face on the cover of magazines?”. I thus felt I deserved a big hoopla only for stopping poisoning my own body with Cancer on a Stick.
And here I am, nine months in.
Nine months, I barely made it nine months before breaking the cigarette fast and having one today.
You see, it is not that I didn’t try. I tried relieving myself from the stress by eating chocolate (marvellous, for about 36 Kinder, until I started to feel nauseated by all that good milk so healthy for my bones). I then tried green tea, walks; a friend of mine even suggested that I actually do sports, which, let’s face it, is very funny. I mean, the idea of me running after nothing, just to move, is beyond ludicrous. Let us be clear here: i run only if a pair of reduced Louboutins is looking at me and the only way to get it is to beat the hordes of red-sole hungry other lunatics competing in the same category as me: shoe crazed freak. No 12 cm peep-toed delights, me no run. End of Story.
So I decided that I was strong enough to deal and cope with the stress by myself, without the help of anything, just me and the 6 seasons of Sex and the City (by the way, I realised that the first episode was aired 14 years ago. Can you believe it? Yet Carrie Bradshaw’s style is still spot on trend, any way, moving on). That resolution was all well and dandy until a strange thing happened. My colleagues’ shapes were slowly blurring and started to look like big giant cigarettes explaining one thing or another to me. I started understanding Marlboros in Hellos and forgot the actual meaning of the word Merit, only to remember I used to smoke Merits in my beloved Cairo (don’t ask, i just saw the yellow merits suited Cairo).
Why is this happening to me now? Couldn’t have had withdrawal symptoms like every other normal human being, at the beginning of me quitting? When it got to the point where I was actually gonna light my boss, I decided I needed to keep my job to be able to exercise a bit in my shoe-pursuit sport, so I just went and pleaded (I mean it. The subject of the email was HELP!), yes pleaded with a colleague of mine for her to hand me that ciggie.
It was like a seedy affair you don’t want people to know about: I smoked it, yes, and I had pleasure doing it, but I felt guilty afterwards (well, more than I usually do anyway).
After I put it one, my fingers smelled yucky, I was coughing and my heart was beating too fast for words, increasing my stress. Was it worth it? Oh No! It is the last time EVER! (Smug, unstressed self, happily writing from the safety of her bed)
You just wait, says my other self, when I stress you tomorrow. DOn’t be more self-righteous than thee.
I really don’t know what you’re talking about, you big, giant talking cigarette.