Excuse #2: I’m Trying To Quit Smoking
Lest you think (due to my previous blog) that I’m living the life of Amy Winehouse up in here---I’m actually a pretty healthy gal. I eat right, exercise, drink in moderation, take vitamins, drink loads of tea and eat organic when possible.
Yes, I’ve been eating french fries more than I should. And sure, it’s that time of year when your friends want to go out for drinks to “catch up”. And then there is my love for bacon---mmmm, bacon.
But all of these things are within my control. Except the smoking. It’s my one truly bad habit. Yes, I have an addiction to books, tea and hot bubble baths---but these are happy addictions. The smoking---not so much so. Despite the fact that I’ve been told by non-smokers that if they could look as cool as me when they smoke, they might take up the habit…well, I don’t think it looks “cool” at all. At least, not on me. On James Dean, it’s still blazing hot. But he’s already dead, so he can smoke as much as he likes.
Why did I start smoking? Well, I blame it on a little thing called Brideshead Revisited. That damned Anthony Andrews in the PBS mini-series---He was so charming and so British as he sat with Jeremy Irons declaring that Turkish cigarettes went so well with strawberries. And I wanted to be charming, too. So I marched my fifteen year-old self into the local Tobacconists (yes, an actual Tobacconists) and asked the man for a tin of Turkish cigarettes. Now, when I was 21, I once passed for twelve years old. So I must have looked like a babe of about seven when I asked for the imported ones, please. The man didn’t blink.
It wasn’t until a week later, when my Mom bought some strawberries, that I gathered up the courage to try one. I waited till my Mom was at work, cracked open my bedroom window and lit one up.
They might have been delicious with strawberries----if one actually smoked. But I didn’t. I smoked about half the cigarette and ate all the strawberries.
Over the course of my high school years, if I were feeling a bit rebellious---I would light one up. But that tin of 10 cigarettes lasted me for over two years.
These days, a pack of cigarettes doesn’t last quite that long. And, more and more, I find that I need cigarettes to write.
I know this is all in my head. But taking a thoughtful drag off a cigarette does seem to clear away unnecessary adjectives. And does make me feel more like… Well, a writer---something you have to keep reminding yourself of when you feel more valued as a person who wears an apron and pours coffee.
But I’d prefer that my writing remind me of being a writer---not the cigarettes. I’m trying to quit. But it sure makes it hard to write.
Word Count: 497 Words
Lest you think (due to my previous blog) that I’m living the life of Amy Winehouse up in here---I’m actually a pretty healthy gal. I eat right, exercise, drink in moderation, take vitamins, drink loads of tea and eat organic when possible.
Yes, I’ve been eating french fries more than I should. And sure, it’s that time of year when your friends want to go out for drinks to “catch up”. And then there is my love for bacon---mmmm, bacon.
But all of these things are within my control. Except the smoking. It’s my one truly bad habit. Yes, I have an addiction to books, tea and hot bubble baths---but these are happy addictions. The smoking---not so much so. Despite the fact that I’ve been told by non-smokers that if they could look as cool as me when they smoke, they might take up the habit…well, I don’t think it looks “cool” at all. At least, not on me. On James Dean, it’s still blazing hot. But he’s already dead, so he can smoke as much as he likes.
Why did I start smoking? Well, I blame it on a little thing called Brideshead Revisited. That damned Anthony Andrews in the PBS mini-series---He was so charming and so British as he sat with Jeremy Irons declaring that Turkish cigarettes went so well with strawberries. And I wanted to be charming, too. So I marched my fifteen year-old self into the local Tobacconists (yes, an actual Tobacconists) and asked the man for a tin of Turkish cigarettes. Now, when I was 21, I once passed for twelve years old. So I must have looked like a babe of about seven when I asked for the imported ones, please. The man didn’t blink.
It wasn’t until a week later, when my Mom bought some strawberries, that I gathered up the courage to try one. I waited till my Mom was at work, cracked open my bedroom window and lit one up.
They might have been delicious with strawberries----if one actually smoked. But I didn’t. I smoked about half the cigarette and ate all the strawberries.
Over the course of my high school years, if I were feeling a bit rebellious---I would light one up. But that tin of 10 cigarettes lasted me for over two years.
These days, a pack of cigarettes doesn’t last quite that long. And, more and more, I find that I need cigarettes to write.
I know this is all in my head. But taking a thoughtful drag off a cigarette does seem to clear away unnecessary adjectives. And does make me feel more like… Well, a writer---something you have to keep reminding yourself of when you feel more valued as a person who wears an apron and pours coffee.
But I’d prefer that my writing remind me of being a writer---not the cigarettes. I’m trying to quit. But it sure makes it hard to write.
Word Count: 497 Words
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