Four Years Since I Sucked A Fag.
I momentarily contemplated posting the following stand-alone sentence as a blog entry today:
"The last time I smoked a cigarette was exactly four years ago."
But as those of you who have been reading my entries have undoubtedly noticed, I’m not one to leave the blanks unfilled-in. And besides, what if one of my faithful readers wants to know how I did it, perhaps because he/she is struggling with the desire to quit as well? Then read on, faithful readers. This is how it happened.
I spent most of 2003 on a long-term temp assignment at the American Association of Medical Colleges at 23rd & M, assisting a handful of other overqualified temps in the verification of transcript information on medical school applications. My boss was named Shanequa, and her boss was named Cleashay. I shit you not. I could never come up with a name quite so - for lack of a better word - cliché. Not that I haven’t tried. I think the word "debris" would make a pretty name. Of course it’d have to be spelled like DeBr’is or something, but still, I think it’s lovely.
Anyway, it was an oppressively hot, humid, downright unpleasant morning in late July 2003. I had a 10-15 minute walk from the Metro to the office, during which I would suck the life out of a Parliament 100 every morning without fail. Which reminds me, can anybody explain to me why 100’s cost the same as regulars? It always seemed completely counterintuitive to me. I mean, you get like WAAAAY more bang for the buck, right? Or am I missing something?
ANYWAY - focus, Matt! - it was disgusting outside on that late July morning, and I realized that I was already going to be pretty much soaked with sweat by the time I arrived at the office. I simply could not make any logical sense of the desire to voluntarily add cigarrette funk to the general disgustingness in which I’d be stewing for the duration of that particular workday. And while I’d never performed studies or conducted research to test this hypothesis, somehow I independently arrived at the conclusion that inhaling something while it was on fire would probably raise my body temperature even higher than the day’s weather already had. So I decided not to have a cigarette on the walk to work that morning.
The day progressed. When it came time for my regular morning smoke break I went through the same thought process as I had on my walk to work. Knowing that the heat and humidity were only climbing higher, I decided to stay at my desk. When lunchtime rolled around I crossed the street to the little buffet place to grab a bite to eat, but chose not to hang around outside ingesting fire while schvitzing my tits off. Afternoon smoke break and the walk back to the Metro, same thing. It was simply too nasty outside to smoke.
Which brings me to one last tangent. Why do smokers get built-in smoke breaks at work? And why, then, do we non-smokers not get "fresh air breaks" built into our schedules? When it’s nice outside I’d love to go stand in front of the building and loiter, enjoying the fresh air for 15 minutes before going back inside to work. But I can’t just stand there. I’d look like an unprofessional idiot. If my boss happened to be entering or leaving the building at that time - or in the office, looking for me - she’d think I was slacking off. If I were a smoker, however, I’d have a perfectly valid excuse. There’s this one guy who works in our building who is literally ALWAYS either in front of the building on a smoke break, or stinking up the elevator en route to a smoke break. If he ever gets any work done he must be staying until midnight, which I kind of doubt is the case. Both of my faithful readers already understand how these types of workplace inequities rile me up. I’m not sure which is worse, allowing flip-flops for women or smoke breaks for smokers. I should write a(nother) letter.
The yucky day recounted above was July 29, 2003. The heat and humidity were the same and/or worse the next day, so my simple logic persevered and kept me from smoking that day as well. And the day after that. By the third day it dawned on me: I think I’ve just quit smoking. It was not a plan, nor was it a decision. It was really kind of an accident, but once I’d accidentally quit, it was definitely a conscious decision not to start again. A conscious decision informed by a handful of delightfully immediate realizations about my newly smoke-free self. My fingers were no longer yellow! My clothes no longer reeked! I was no longer giving myself lung cancer! Besides, once I’d quit, it just seemed easier to stay quit than it would be to try quitting again in the future. I hadn’t planned it, but the timing worked out just fine for me.
So there you have it, dear readers. That is how I accidentally quit smoking. To celebrate this four-year milesone, I think I’m gonna go hang out in front of the building now to enjoy some fresh air. And of course to glare at that other, far more fetid slacker who really should be out of a job by now. Stinky asshole.
