Just Breathe

Today I write my blog with a numb ass from sitting in bed all day.

Usually I am excited at the prospect of casually lounging around the house when I should be tense and anxious at work -- particularly each morning at 7:30 when my alarm clock reminds me that I am not rich. But today is not exciting. Today I am a wheezing pajama empress on my throne-bed surrounded by my loyal subjects: hundreds of used, balled up tissues and a glass of orange juice. I am dizzy when I stand and exhausted when I walk. I have a terrible cold and I am cranky, dammit!

The problem is I won't fucking stop smoking. Parliament Lights have run my life for ten years and three months. I have quit a few times, once for almost two years.

See, I do well for a while but then they find me. They dance and float around in the weekend moonlight like magical orange pixies. They see me and laugh and smile and call me over in their British accents and say, "Hey there, love, remember us? How have you been? We haven't seen you in forever! We used to be constant companions, didn't we? What happened? We miss you. Come over and have a visit." And they seem charming and delightful and I think, "Gosh, I don't know; where have I been? Parliament Lights are my favorite! I am a jerk!" And I whisk past my inner voice as it says for the millionth time, "You've been at the gym. This is a bad idea." It is just like when you think talking to that good-looking surfer boy who frequents the local bar on weeknights seems brilliant. Inevitably, he starts to talk and you realize you've fallen for it AGAIN. They're appealing, but very stupid.

And so it goes. I was at a fabulous wedding this weekend with all my friends from home. We looked like fairy tale royalty in our gowns with our hair and makeup and nails all professionally done. And we laughed and chatted, glowing and flitting about. And after the toast, we all paraded outside into the cold night and smoked constantly as if it were flattering and good for us, instead of ugly and smelly and pretty much the worst thing one can do to her body except maybe crack.

I can feel it coming on. My nose gets stuffy. My throat hurts. I get winded going up a flight of stairs. Dull teeth. Stinky hair. I even get pangs of tension in my left shoulder sometimes. The same old familiar effects. I have talks with myself when I wake up. "No cigarettes today. I feel like shit." But then I see someone who smokes my brand and they turn into a walking, talking cartoon cigarette mirage jumping and laughing and it's all I can think about until I quickly give in and I bum one off of them. I feel the build up and excitement of rebellion as I light it. But by the time I stomp it out, I realize it's not gratifying; it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It's like kissing an ex that you never really cared for to begin with. It's just easy and familiar and when it's over you curse your imagination for being so vivid.

I am lucky because I can retreat back to LA where smoking is almost taboo. It's something only the east-coasters do and even most of those friends don't smoke at all. I feel awkward and smelly after a cigarette out here. Now that I'm back, maybe I'll breathe easy for good.