Up until Saturday, I hadn't had a cigarette since early January.
For the most part, I didn't miss it. I've become an out-of-country smoker anyway, rarely wanting to light up during regular day-to-day conditions. Sure, there have been days when a client did their best to make my head explode, when I had to work hard not to slam down the phone and stalk outside with a small friend, but otherwise, I've been alright. Even lighting during social hours have become a thing of the past; Toronto's been a non-smoking city for close to four years now, after all. I've even managed to abstain from smoking around other smokers.
Because I felt so in control about my old habit, I was really looking forward to visiting my cousin Frank on Saturday night. He's a smoker - I think he's gone pro, at this point, that's how much he smokes. It was a nice night, they have a balcony, and lately, I've been missing the joy of holding a cigarette between two fingers and flicking gently with my thumb. I've missed the feeling of blowing a plume of smoke out, and gesturing wildly with an ember in the night. It's disgusting, I know, but it's also comforting and wonderful and, Jesus, get off my back, ok?
Anyway. I was looking forward to visiting, not only for the company, but for the companionable way that Frank has of tilting his pack toward me so that I can bend back the flip-top and pluck one out. Which he did. Which I did.
I smiled, held the cigarette between my lips, and leaned in for the flame... and the thing felt foreign and unappetizing and gross. It didn't taste good going down, it didn't feel comfortable between my fingers or my lips, and halfway through, I had no choice but to butt it out. A few hours later, I tried again, with the same bloody result.
Most people can't allow themselves 'just one' because they know they'll fall right back into the habit. It seems that if I don't cheat every once in a while, I lose it completely.
I seem to have accidentally quit smoking.
Of all the goddamn things.
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