Kyle City Limits
by BRENDA STEWART
The last time I quit smoking, a friend made a pointed suggestion that, in future endeavors, it might be prudent to give folks a bit of a heads up. Seems there is no way to mask the withdrawal my 35-year habit wreaks on my daily routine and demeanor.
Come to find out there were rumors flying about my worrisome melancholy countered by bouts of manic delirium and evidently some communal head scratching over my reactions to ordinary events during my last attempt.
So, as a public service announcement, today it has been one week since I smoked my last cigarette and I’d just like to say that I am totally fine this time. Really. Except for the fact that I’ve lost my personality. And, as it feels right now, my reason for being.
Fortunately, the mornings are a breeze without the nicotine hangover. And since drinking and smoking have always been joined at the hip for me, when I kick the cigarettes to the curb, the alcohol has to take a hike as well for a while until I no longer associate the two.
So, I lose the morning wine-haze as well and boy, let me tell you, I wake up with enough kinetic energy to spin a windmill. You want to go to breakfast? Take Ginger for a run? Plant an herb garden? I’m in.
And since I’ve never been a day smoker, the whole nicotine jonesing doesn’t trip me up until dusk settles in, and it’s time to kick back with a cig and a drink and unwind (from odd things like exercise and gardening).
That’s when my chest clinches up and my jaws lock and I feel this real sense of panic and dread about the long, empty evening (and my life in general) looming ahead of me.
God forbid a friend calls to chat after dark. It’s as if the bell triggers the Pavlov’s dog response in me and I begin frantically searching my satchel for my American Spirits while my mind whirls to that crisp chardonnay in the door of the fridge. Deny me this simple pleasure and I’m off to the backyard, stomping around, cursing at the moon.
Luckily, after about nine o’clock I’m exhausted from the rage, self-pity and pacing. The vise around my lungs has loosened and I can cross one more smokeless day off my calendar and mercifully go to bed.
The last time I quit smoking was the day they swore Obama into office. He was all about hope and change and I jumped right on those coattails and sailed into the dream. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that I was sailing right onto the Titanic.
To this day I still feel like we both had a good idea and incredible momentum and pretty much universal support. Somehow we just didn’t shore it up enough to withstand adversity and what, life?
So, Obama and I, we’ve both gotten back up and dusted the shellac off. Reevaluated our strategies and recommitted to the task at hand because we know that it is worth it in the long run. Even if the journey is awkward.
And, ironically, we’re still after the same ultimate goal on two different levels. Health and prosperity.
