Today is my three-weeks-and-one-day anniversary in nicotine detox. According to all of the experts (i.e. my friends who have already given up), three weeks is the watershed, the milestone, the pinnacle of my achievement.
All that three weeks abstinence has proven to me is that:
a) I am excellent at stealth following smokers in an attempt to second hand smoke on the street
b) Not smoking is detrimental to my appearance. I have chewed my lips, fingers and any available limb to a bloody stump. I have pulled out hair and ruined my posture by constantly sitting on my hands. If three weeks stretches into a longer timeframe, I will have to start wearing a bell around my neck.
c) My former colleagues in the smoking community are out to get me. Everywhere I turn they are inhaling with orgasmic satisfaction. The bastards.
I am beginning to blame Allan Carr for all that is wrong with the world. He promised me (a 100+ page promise) that quitting would be a joy, a freedom never before felt. My pink lungs and I would skip down grassy meadows with pockets full of unwasted cash. He lied.
For a start, there isn't a grassy meadow for miles around, and my cigarette money is now being blown on Wispas. I may not smell like an ashtray anymore, but I'm sure you can get a whiff of my desperation/chocolate overload.
It was my conscience that got me in the end. My 11 year old sister, with eyes like saucers, asking me to stop smoking because she doesn't want me to die. Goddamn primary school logic. How can you refuse that?
But there are many out there who don't know my little sister. They laugh in the face of cancer and stained fingers. They drag on their cigarette with gay abandon. I'm becoming so bitter and twisted against these devil-may-care smokers that I am seriously considering joining Ash, just to ruin their fun.
I'm sure I'll get over this 'hump'.
In the meantime, try not to look as if you're not enjoying it so feckin' much.