After 6 years and countless half-hearted attempts to stop, I’ve decided, as of today, to officially quit smoking.
I often wonder how me, of all people, became a smoker. I was so incredibly naive when I entered college, having never smoked anything in high school, and so totally grossed out by it, that I just can’t believe I latched onto it. It was a pretty cliche road for me – social smoker goes from “just when drinking” to every chance she gets. Every time it was acknowledged I was a smoker, I quietly cringed to myself, fully aware of how disappointed in myself I was.
And people got used to the idea, and the more it was accepted, the better I felt about it. And then after a while I realized that I LOVED to smoke. Even if no one else in my group of friends did, even if they shamed me, and we were in a smoke-free town and it was raining or snowing or HAILING outside, it was still worth dealing with whatever to just have one fag.
And quitting? I’ve always maintained the lame excuses that a) it’ll be easy for me, b) I don’t smoke as much as others, and my favorite, c)”I need to want to quit”. But it hasn’t been easy every time I’ve tried, I smoke enough to feel like Wheezey McGee when I’m on a run, and again, I LOVE TO SMOKE so I’ll never really want to quit.
But I’ve decided to do the half-marathon in October. If I’m going to get serious about training, I need to be able to breathe and get past feeling like my lungs are shriveling up and about to collapse after mile 4.
So, Marlboro Lights – after 6 years, I’m breaking up with you. Let’s just hope I don’t replace you with a grumpy attitude and carbs.