Let's just call it a procedure... ...that they didn't have facilities for at the doctor's office during last month's physical, an indignity that can be measured in feet, and watched live on TV. And I had to go to the med school for it this morning. And I had to forego any solid food for 48 hours. And I saw a virgin cigarette on the sidewalk by the entrance. And I thought, midway through the procedure, "If I survive this, and if it's still there on the sidewalk, I am going to smoke the heck out of that virgin cigarette when I get out of here. It doesn't matter anymore, I've surrendered all dignity and self-respect." The cigarette was squashed and shredded. I had mixed feelings about that. Coincidence?? I think not. And that was just the morning procedure... I returned to the funhouse this afternoon. Although I have not smoked, I have eaten, after 55 hours of not doing so. Sorry you had to hear this.
Maybe you can understand now why I don't want to leave quitnet.org
any time soon, even though my time there is not really necessary
anymore. Just Desserts, or Hurrah for the Pumpkin Pie ToddL on 09/07/1998 23:08:08 Dear Quitsters, A fair amount of sport was made of me last week. And not just here, either. Some of you know about it already, because the chat room was my only solace for a late-night $500 accident. If not for them, I might have sought comfort in another way. Spouse's ridicule ensured that I would never again cut out the hole in a new counter for a fancy glass built-in cooktop with the smashable cooktop resting in the cupboard beneath. Today we were to visit with spouse's evil twin (yes, even shewhohasneverinhaled has one) brother and his dreaded wife who so clearly hates us, chez in-laws. We were to provide a pumpkin pie. Spouse had the pie all loaded up, too full of filling (hey, why call it "filling," otherwise?), and was aiming it toward the top rack of the hot oven when her hand touched the hot rack... I arrived home, and was met by 6 year old darlingdaughter, who had been banished downstairs. She took me aside and with great excitement whispered "Daddy, you will not believe the big mess Mommy made in the kitchen." Heh, heh... "Pie in the Sky"
Even as I disassembled the oven door to clean filling from the inside of it (filling had found the vents in the top of the door), I could not help but think "yesss, there is a God." And the smoke connection, you ask? I dunno. A few months ago it would have been newsworthy just because I didn't smoke in the face of (or around the back of) adversity. Now, I guess it's to point out that even nonsmokers do dumb things. And to savor the last laugh a little longer (well, the most recent laugh, anyway), and to warn you not to make too much fun of your spouse or equivalent today-- tomorrow you might do something stupid. See you later, ToddL Contemplating Life, Death and Quitliness at Six Months With apologies to Lewis Carroll: I'm going to try to gather some actual thoughts together. I think I am finally capable of actual thought processes, but I am not sure I am able to convey them in any cohesive way. Maybe that's why this thing that I'm writing is called a ramble. The quit seems sturdy now. I am fairly confident that I will not smoke during the next nine days, and I'm even pretty sure about the next two weeks, as long as I keep coming here. I no longer worry about making it through the afternoon, but my concerns about that lasted for a good long while, well over two months. Confidence in that ability is critical, and only develops through time Because I could not stop for death, I watched the woods fill up with snow. Beat the Reaper. That's the name of the game. I have yet to deal with the loss of a really close relative, although two grandparents and two uncles from my large extended family have died in recent years. All were well into their 80's or 90's, and in each case their deaths were perceived as a blessing to their families. So, thoughts about mortality rarely entered my mind until I became a father at the doddering age of 40. The experience of having a small child planted the issue firmly in mind. Shortly after the onset of fatherhood, I have also been confronted with the death of a graduate student to AIDS, and a colleague close to my age, a random and violent event that I ponder many times each day, even six years later. As far as premature death is concerned, I'm against it. We should not die until we have worn out our welcome. So, while I've had many walks in the woods, contemplating the tragedy of our temporary existence while toasting my vessels with tobacco, I am now taking a stand against leaving unnecessarily at a relatively tender age. This winter, I'll watch the snowfall differently, still in a spaniel's company, but without the wistful feeling of entrapment that used to whistle through my bones with each gasp of smoke. Valuing life. This does not come easily for the cynical. We may dread dying, but this does not make living any easier. Still, even I must admit that I have had things very much in my favor for my entire existence. Most everyone has. Consider the odds that 360,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,018 atoms, mostly H, C and O, could gang up to form a functioning person. This simply does not happen on most planets. Rocks are much easier: we could very easily have become rocks, given just one misstep in our formation and evolution. We should consider ourselves lucky as hell even to be plants, but consider further the odds that those atoms not only constitute a functioning person, but one who laughs, loves, thinks about existence. Whatever existence is, I am for it. It is, however, a very brief period of being, much shorter than a rock's life even if we make it to 95; and we must cling to it with all we have. There will be plenty of time for rockhood later. Life's shorter than I thought it would be. I'm not drooling out of one side of the mouth yet*, but I am nevertheless becoming a geezer. Starting to bore people. I can see it happening. When I ask my six-year-old whether I've ever told her about... and she rolls her eyes and says "only about a thousand times," I realize I'm getting a bit, well... predictable. Smoking began as a symbol of maturity; ironically, it developed into a symbol of youth, a denial of geezerhood, a way of saying to the giant, "who cares for you?" It was a thumbing of the nose, a laugh at danger, a can't-catch-me, acceptance of the double-dare. It began in rebellion, and smoking remained my single lasting defiant deed and evil act. But now, I'm as old as my dad was when he had his furious rages about my hair length, when he was an embarrassment to me in the church softball league, when he refused to believe me when the brakes didn't work and I smashed the eminently practical '64 beige Belvidere. This summer I bought a 4-year-old Ford Crown Victoria, a geezer-car. Despite its purple color, it did seem exceedingly practical-- that's why I bought it. Dad would be proud. That's also why I didn't really want it, but the practical fuddy-duddy is taking over, for better or worse. A full third of my daughter's childhood, probably the best part, has vanished. Poof. Gone. I've spent much of our limited time together trying to find a way to sneak a smoke. I've missed a lot of enjoyment because my need for cigarettes controlled my moods, my actions. I can't believe I wasted so much of our time together looking for excuses to be alone. There will be plenty of time for loneliness later, when I become a pang for her conscience, an inconvenient problem. Now I feel confident that I will reach that stage of vengeance, and I will take comfort that the immortality I seek through my daughter's memories will not be stained by her memory of me smoking, since I never did that in front of her. I surely would like to find a way to keep my child away from the smoking mistake. The one good thing about my habit as a closet smoker was that my daughter will never use me as an excuse for starting. One recent night in the chat room, there was a visiting 18-year-old (hence, immortal) college student who was thinking of quitting. I was struck by how little it is possible to know about smoking and its harmful influences, and how frightening the prospect of quitting can be, even to someone who has only smoked for three years. This kid wasn't even convinced about the harmful health effects of smoking. Another lamb to the slaughter, I thought, after trying vainly to type some sense into him. Maybe he'll come back and quit, but it sounded like he was not ready for that. It seemed more likely that he was stepping into the same trap that all of us have: three years of occasional smokes with friends, now becoming a habit in college, already a dependency. I am pleased to say that, for the present, nobody close to me smokes. I thought I was the last to give it up among the people close to me, but now I have this new family of quitsters to worry about, many of whom have quit more recently. As a closet smoker surrounded by colleagues and family who have never smoked, Quitnet was extremely useful for me during my quit. I still thrive on our exchanges and celebrations, and enjoy this place too much to leave. I still feel vulnerable without it, and some of you are just too entertaining, others too inspiring, and the rest just too sweet to leave. The newcomers provide daily reminders of how difficult the early quit was, and the exhilaration of discovering the ability to succeed. I'm completely convinced that you at quitnet.org have made these 6 months possible for me; you've also made my quit much more fun than a quit should rightly be. The slugs are not singing in my woods anymore. They once delighted in the cigarettes I squirreled away beneath logs, leaving their slobber on the filters for me to contend with. Who knows? Maybe they've galloped off to feast on someone else's stash. I can't say that I miss them. With greatest affection for all my quit-chums, ToddL *How can you tell a level-headed Swede? The snoose-juice runs
out BOTH sides of his mouth. It's that time of year again... 10/11/1998 22:23:30 When the leaves light the hills on fire, when there's a touch of morning frost, when the laughter of schoolchildren echoes down the morning streets, when there's the sound of horsehide smacking against white ash, that means it is time for... my annual Nobel Prize rant. It's pins 'n' needles time. I have been waiting to receive fair consideration from the Nobel Committee for 20 years now, and my heart skipped a beat when I received e-mail from the Nobel committee on Friday, but it was only to let me know that they will release their decision tomorrow (monday) at 11:30 Central European Time. Although the prize is for "Physiology and Medicine", they define it loosely and this comes closer to my interests than Physics, Chemistry, Literature, Economics or Peace, and is usually given to a biologist, so that's where I think I have the best shot. I will settle for just one Nobel Prize. Is that asking too damned much? I mean, it's not like I won't be grateful or anything. I'm starting to wonder if those s.o.b.'s even bother to read the stuff I send them every year, telling them about all I've done since I last applied for a Nobel Prize, and telling them how I plan to use the money for the betterment of humanity. And this year, I've even quit smoking! I hope that makes the difference-- in recent years, I think they've been discriminating against smokers. Each year, I get all excited thinking "this year for sure" and each time I've used my failure as an excuse to slink of to the parking garage and light one up. This year, I just know it will be different. I just have this feeling... Keep those fingers crossed, now... My morning e-mail-- how upsetting this is... 10/12/1998 08:41:50 Nobelforsamlingen Press Release October 12, 1998 The Nobel Assembly at the Karolinska Institute has today decided to award the 1998 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine jointly to Robert F. Furchgott, Louis J. Ignarro and Ferid Murad for their discoveries concerning "nitric oxide as a signalling molecule in the cardiovascular system." (Yawn) Now really. Isn't that a bit "old hat"? And
frightfully dull. No wonder the Nobel Prize has such
a bad name. Ah, well. Passed over again. I can't believe
it. what a world, what a world.. The ABC's of Q: an 8-month
Rhyme-o-Ramblorama
My date was dressed to kill, in a fetching short purple velvet number. I was overpowered by the perfume as we drove to the dance. I thought people might think she was a bit too young for me, but when we arrived, my uneasiness vanished. The event was populated with many men my age, some even older, although most of those my age were on their second time around. I felt less self-conscious when I noticed that some of them had pot bellies. Others had comb-overs. Still others smelled of cigarette smoke, quite distinctly. "That poor bastard is going to be suffering by 9:00," I thought smugly, as I hung our coats in the coatroom, wondering what brand of cigarettes the person next to me had just enjoyed. All the couples at our table had one thing in common: men in their 40's with dates far younger. In fact, all of them were young enough to be students. Indeed, most of them looked young enough to be our daughters! As we waited for our table to be served, I felt a craving run through me, not for a cigarette, but for a stiff belt of bourbon. But there did not seem to be anyone taking orders for cocktails. It was probably just as well. My date does not drink, and I might have become an embarrassment with too much of that. We waited patiently for our dinner, while I learned more about the claims division at a regional insurance company than I wanted to know. The dinner brought forth a collection of memories from a church-going midwestern childhood. A wide selection of casseroles was available, but I knew we were not in Illinois because there was no tuna and potato chip hot-dish, and there was not a jello salad to be seen. And no damn coffee, either. Many adults smoked freely and heavily at the church potlucks of my childhood, but nobody was smoking at this affair, which was also being held in a church basement. When I was in college, a convenient way of fulfilling the physical education requirement (particularly popular among smokers) was to take a course called Social Dance. The course was taught by Dr. Axel Bundgaard, Ph.D. He was the only member of the Phy. Ed. department with a Ph.D., and he was reputed to have written his dissertation on the Fox Trot. I think this was true, as we spent most of that semester learning the intricacies of the Fox Trot, including the transition from normal to conversation mode via the "Twinkle Step." Dr. Bundgaard cautioned us not to be too overtly twinkly with our twinkle step, that there is great virtue in a subdued, understated twinkle. This might have been the Norwegian version. The music was selected by a pair of aging DJs, who should probably find ways to make more serious contributions to society. They did come equipped with strobe lights, a revolving disco ball, and flashing red, yellow, green and blue lights. As the music began, I discovered to my horror that we would probably not have many fox-trotting opportunities. This may have been a blessing, as my lovely date is so much shorter that it would have been somewhat awkward, especially the twinkle steps. We began to dance in some nondescript and awkward sort of way, for several songs, and I felt I was just getting the hang of it. Spice Girls. It's fun to stay at the YMCA. Spice Girls. Stayin' Alive. Spice Girls. If you wanna be a Chicken you gotta flap your wings and do the twist. Spice Girls. The Macarena (don't even ask). Spice Girls. My date was getting into spins. I was not running out of breath. I was becoming a dancin' fool. I could have danced all night. I was a nonsmoker with working lungs! Suddenly, my date devastated me by asking if I minded if she danced with Chelsea. And off they went, just like that. After Chelsea, it was Alyssa, then Christina, then Gina. And on and on it went, at the Great Annual Brownie-Girl Scout Father-Daughter Semi-Formal Dinner-Dance. Ya know, life is rough as chief of the claims division for
Commerce Insurance... I had no idea.
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