Cig-free and not so bad.

Everyone makes you think that quitting will be hard. It just isn’t…yet. I am waiting for it to be hard. The patch is on my arm (albeit loosely, damn expensive brandless Wal-Mart POS) but I still have cravings, just not in the oh-my-God-I’m-dying kind of way. Would it be harder without the patch? Who knows. Am I willing to try it wihtout that patch? Er…not yet

Because the patch is my saving grace thus far, I think, the thing that has made it easier to quit. And I haven’t cleaned out my car yet, which made it odd when I got in my car today to drive to work, and then later, to go to lunch. I could still see the little white flurries on the dashboard from where they float around when you smoke, and smell that smell that people hate…but to me that smell was like…home almost. Almost. There are many cigarette smells, like the one you get in your hair when you go dancing (not good) and the one you get in your grandparent’s house after a few days of nonstop chaining with no windows open (also not good), but then there’s that musky warm smell that the car gets in the afternoon that makes me feel that I am in my car, safe and sound, the smell of mine. I need to get rid of that smell, because it almost makes me want to smoke again.

Another thing I have to clean out of my car is the half-smoked butts. Because everyone who has smoked regularly and run out of cigarettes has looked in an ashtray and decided that that cigarette right there has enough tobacco for maybe a drag or…two. I should smoke it now. It’s OK, nobody’s gonna know. It’s all scruffy and ashy, but I don’t have anymore cigarettes and…OK, just this once. You know you have, don’t deny it.

Even though nobody’s looking, I don’t want to do it. Because I have had my last cigarette. It was a good cigarette, smoked with the windows down, listening to 50 after shopping a very satisfying catch at Kohl’s on a Friday afternoon. It was a fitting end to my relationship with the smokes, neat and on my own terms. It wasn’t a hurried parting of ways, filled with dread, but more like the wistful bittersweet end of a summer romance. I didn’t feel like I was sacrificing, but more closing that book of my life. I have hurt before, done without, lost people by choice. This was one of those relationships I had to end for me, because it’s better this way, truly. It doesn’t mean that I won’t miss them, it just means I don’t need them anymore. So smoking one of those sad little butts in the ashtray will be a mockery of my last cigarette. I don’t want any more, and because the end was so good, I won’t have any more. And that’s that.