I've been quit (love that gramatically incorrect terminology) since January 1, 2006, and I am still proud of myself that I haven't lit up. Because, Lord knows, there have been days.
I remember finding a near-empty pack of Parliament Lights (my No. 2 brand, after Marlboro Lights) in a cab when I was incredibly wasted after drinking with my coworkers last year. Instead of smoking the last three cigs, I threw them out. I don't know that that was the absolute closest I've come to picking up the habit again, but something about clear skin and a clear conscience keeps me from doing myself in.
It's quiet tonight on the Upper East Side. I've had company all weekend, so I've had to follow through with a lot of forced outings -- forced eating, forced drinking. I think I'm gaining weight again, which is not good considering the lycra/spandex fuschia dress I'm planning to wear at my birthday celebration this Friday. Whatever. I'll figure out how to suck it all in before then, and at 128 pounds (my thinnest since 2002) and 5-foot-4, I think I'm doing all right.
My company is still here tomorrow, and I'm a little disappointed I still have to babysit when all I really want to do is see N. The longing for him, however, has worn a little thin for me. Aside from my obvious psychological wear and tear that has resulted from me having nothing better to do than watch HBO and worry, he texted out of the blue today; he's bringing me back a present. He has been thinking of me.
Smoking. Drinking. Carousing. It's all more glamorous if you're in NYC. If you're in Greenville, Mississippi? Somehow less so, unless you're Lucinda Williams. Though I would trade a weekend in my studio apartment for a weekend there every now and again.
So. No smoking, anymore, unfortunately. Less drinking, or so I hope. And carousing only in the best sense possible, when it's with old friends or new lovers or in the best places in the best city on earth, with the best intentions.