Smokers' Guilt

It's that time, again. Smokers' Guilt Week. Oh, joy.

Know how I know? Two ways, is how I know.

Let's see ... there's Thanksgiving when we go spend the day at the in-law's. Where they love you very much (and you love them) but you get gently reproving looks every time you duck out for a cigarette. Where this great raft of squealing, impressionable kids dart around and through the house and you know you know you’re the only adult to reek of stale cigarettes. Where every one of the lovely people there would be horrified to think you might feel even the tiniest hint of reprobation for indulging in this nasty habit.

Then, there's the Great American Smokeout. For more than 30 years, there's been this society-spanning effort to encourage, cajole and enable smokers to quit for Just One Day And You'll See. As if quitting for one day is a big deal for a smoker with a 40-year habit, though we do appreciate -- well, kinda-sorta but we're touched, thank you -- everyone's kind thoughts.

Ultimately, from a committed smoker's standpoint, the Great American Smokeout is little more than a non-(and worse, former-)smokers' expression of self-indulgent pity for a committed smokers' great addiction. Weak, Stone, you're weak!

Like I said. Smokers' Guilt Week.

But, here's what really pisses me off.

Eight weeks ago, I quit smoking. Eight weeks ago. To my own disquieted amazement, it's been relatively painless. Granted, I haven't quit on my own. I get by with a little help from my friends (better living through chemistry, don'cha know). Plus, Tia Rae and I are doing this together and there is strength in numbers after all (quantity has a quality all its own).

But, it’s been easy. Maybe too easy. I’ve tried to quit before and it was hard. Several times, and it was hard. I’ve gone without – a plane flight to Alaska means 8-10 hours without; to London means 10-12 hours without – and it was hard. Very hard. Why is this so easy?

I didn’t really want to quit. I mean, there’s been no transformative event to shape this decision, no health quandary prompting a sudden move to wellness. In fact, even with all my bad habits -- my love of red wine, Mexican lagar and agave tequila, Blue Bell ice cream over pie (any fresh fruit inside a flaky pastry crust will do) and and barely-seared red meat – I passed my 50-year medical checkup with my colors displayed proudly, if not flying high.

And, I’m not broke so the expense wasn’t the issue — though I’m no longer on a first name basis with the gals at the Hilltop CEFCO and we don’t burn through cash quite as quickly each month.

I know I should be proud, and justifiably so, of both of us. I can't speak for her but I’m not. I’m pissed. I want a cigarette. I know I don’t really “need” one but I want one. Further, as long as my little friends* are swirling through my brain and bloodstream, I don’t even feel the pleasurable effects of smoking a cigarette. I know. I’ve tried! Didn't do a goddam thing! Dammit!

So, I’m still addicted and I still want a cigarette, dammit, but I’ve quit. And it really pisses me off.

Smokers' Guilt Week. Bah!

We’ll go to the in-laws’ for Thanksgiving on Thursday. I won’t say anything about our new non-smoking status (Tia Rae might but, then again, she might not) so no one will likely make a big deal about it unless they notice that I don’t duck out and don’t reek. And, even if they do notice, they will be gracious and generous and encouraging and proud and it'll PISS. ME. OFF.

Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the Smokeout. Dammit.

*Before you start reaching for conclusions, I should probably note that I am taking Chantix under a doctor’s care. Perhaps I should discuss a Xanax prescription as well.