As much fun as... not calling this blog by that title.

I've made it a solid three weeks of not smoking.  If you want to count two slip-ups--flamenco night and Father John Misty-- it's been about a month since I committed to a lifestyle of relative health.  And I feel like it's pretty safe to say The Worst Is Over.  So then I've been asking myself what to do about this potentially fancy Blog Thing I have designed.

My sweet princess, whose bangs I will never have. WHO WILL NEVER HAVE MY FRESH YOUNG LUNGS.    

The self-loathing side of me (75-82%) finds the concept of keeping a personal blog unnecessary, self-aggrandizing, UNCOOL.  Over the past few years, many secretive friends and my once-threateningly-enigmatic boyfriend have taught me the virtues of revealing little, of being the question-asker instead of the question-asked.  There are still people that I meet that I'll feel a startling electric kin-feeling with and then I'll tell them about my ideal haircut and  exactly how much TV I watch.  But otherwise, I enjoy imagining myself as an elusive cat figure, refusing to read any English Department emails and lounging for days in my hermit cave.  This is NOT accurate but makes the thought of doing a blog sort-of counterintuitive to my deep longing for... depth.

BUT THEN WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT WRITING ABOUT A BLOG.  Ugh, the self-indulgence.  But then I do want to be a food writer.  And I do eat, so so much, and feel obligated to impress upon the world what a fucking awesome cook I have become.  And there are times in the day, like when I listen to rap music and think of my sister, or when Sally has a bad vet visit and drags her ass all over every fabric surface of my home, that I just want to throw all this shit to the proverbial Wind of the Great Wide Web and see what sticks.

The fact is, I do like to write and I do want to say things.  I will probably change the name because it is stupid.

The Cig and I: A Love Story

I had my first cigarette at 15.  That was a wild, shitty year, filled with first boyfriends and general feelings of ineptitude.  I think this was my francophile year-- a bad passion for a developing mind, seeing as all French people are dandies and debutantes (sorry, Ilona).  I left the Chesapeake Public Library with arms full of New Wave DVDS, watching Anna Karina’s perfect lips exhale lungfuls of unfiltered cigarette smoke.  And Bond girls, my major source of feminine inspiration, were huge smokers-- at least the bad ones, who were largely Italian and better-dressed.  

My neighbor in North Carolina, Yancy, had been smoking for years at that point.  He was still a pup of 20 or so, bright red lungs already tumescent with gobs of phlegm and postnasal drip.  I took two cigarettes out of his truck, and lit one the wrong way in front of my sister, who then laughed at me and also told me never to do that again.  I did not listen, because I Did Not and Still Do Not enjoy being told what to do by anyone, ever, as a general principle.

Maybe that’s why I started smoking.  Because you are just not supposed to do that!  It is a truth well-known that smoking does not make you a classy lady or a hellraiser-- it makes you dead, or at the very least, emphysematic and wrinkly-papery and filled with bitterness.  But my Gran, the last of his kind, a Nasty Guy with Nascar trophies and souvenirs from cruises, smoked Kools.  And I loved the smell of his smoke as much as I loved/feared him, with his tattoos and his hermit cave and false teeth. 

I took the second cigarette and walked down the road to where an old, abandoned barn used to be.  The scrubby undergrowth and baby pines were low enough that you could still see the water, 5 PM on Memorial Day.  I lit a Marlboro Light (my $moke of choice, my one, my only) with matches my dad saved for the grill, and enjoyed every tiny drag of it.  No coughing, because I once had the Rudd lungs of champions.  

Nicotine, you shrill harpy, you tyrant!  I should kill you in your sleep.  That’s the hardest part about this-- for six years, I have loved smoking.  It is relaxing, it is social, it is tasty (!!), it is comforting.  What am I supposed to do with emotions without their tar-covered companions?  Cigarettes are tiny, paper-covered crutches.  Awkward party conversation? Light a cigarette.  Late-night weapon for Forcible Fondlers? Burn their eyes out.  If you smoke, you’re always The One With the Lighter, always able to snap to attention for a grill, a gas stove.  

I have three lighters sitting in my utensil drawer next to whisks and an ice cream scoop.  Pink, green, and blue, all shiny and heavy like plastic candy.  I should probably hide those, like I hid my enameled-flower ashtray, but I just have too many candles.   

I have not smoked a cigarette since 11 o'clock last night.  Kevin said I should just stop and make up my mind, but I just wanted ONE LAST FINAL REAL ONE.  A kiss goodbye, if you will.  I sat on my balcony in pajamas from Christmas '10 (thanks, Mom) and gently, lovingly, smoked a Pall Mall to the filter.  I really hate them and still don't understand why Kevin insists on buying shitty brands, but it was better than breathing air.

It's difficult for him to understand the emotional attachment I have to smoking.  He can go all day without one, he never smokes when he's sick.  How do you tell your boyfriend that quitting smoking feels like breaking up?  I (fuck me) feel significantly less myself.  I want to be sitting outside, not enjoying the air, but enjoying tar-coated inhalations of heaven.  I want to be drinking my coffee with a lit cigarette, not a gnarly cough-- the residue from smoking a carton of Winstons, a brand which clearly does not know the meaning of "light cigarette."  

Mostly, I wish I had never known the delicate, secretive pleasure of smoking so I wouldn't have to mourn its loss.  Sure, in a week I'll be able to tap dance better than Ginger Effing Rogers.  Maybe I'll be able to run again--no, never, actually.  I will never go running.  But what about the first time I have alcohol as a non-smoker?  What about Christmas morning?  How am I supposed to enjoy nature if I'm not polluting it?

I obviously am having some sort of identity crisis, which is probably all the more reason to stop smoking.  I feel like I'm on the edge of losing my shit, but I don't know if I would feel like that if I hadn't read Wikipedia and WebMD entries on the anxious, irritable hellpit that is smoking cessation.  

I'm going to sit in bed with a cup of thick coffee and a glass of grapefruit juice (toxin flushing?! Jury's out or full of shit), watching "Sons of Anarchy" in between Middle English homework.  It would be helpful to have a roommate.  Or an induced coma.