Edubabble and other Blither

I've not had a cigarette since Valentine's Day. I chose that day for two reasons, one of which is self-love. No, not THAT kind of self-love! The other reason is to honor my 87 year old grandmother (born on Valentine's Day), who doesn't even know I smoke. She's never smoked, never drunk alcohol.

I quit in '97 and didn't smoke for about five years. For the past five years, though, I've smoked every time I go out. I go out a lot. I've smoked every time I'm with my smoking friends. I see my friends a lot. In fact, I've erroneously called myself a non-smoker just because every week a few days go by when I don't smoke. (I can picture Dr. Phil sitting across from me on the stage, saying, "Are you KIDDING me??")

Friday was a mountain, for sure. I went to the club after school, as I do most Fridays. I went alone, for the Senora was otherwise occupied. Alone was good. I could sit there at the bar, catch my buzz, and concentrate on why I needed to get this first smoke-free buzz out of the way.

1. I pride myself on being fairly intelligent. Having asthma and smoking is not something an intelligent person does. I don't want people to shake their heads at my funeral. "Man, how could Chrissy be so stupid? What a waste."

2. I don't want to someday drag an oxygen tank around with me. I kept picturing all the places it would be inconvenient/unattractive: in bed with my husband, at school, on the dancefloor at my niece's wedding. I can't be a sexy yet capable and powerful older woman, a contender, so to speak, with an oxygen tank.

3. I don't want to lose my voicebox. Yes, that may sound dramatic-- not a surprise to those of you who really know me-- but my grandfather did have throat cancer, and I do have GERD already, which can lead to throat cancer. As Friday progressed and Tripper joined me at a party, I kept bringing this up. I turned to him, placed my index finger over my throat, and talked in a funny robot voice: "Hello, class. I'm your teacher, Mrs. Snow. This year we'll learn how to take tests so that none of you are left behind." Tripper grew weary of this new preoccupation of mine. "If you don't stop that, I'm gonna leave you behind," he retorted. "But I don't want a trach, " I whined. "You don't want a stoma," he corrected. "A trach's what they give you in an emergency." Oh, okay. That, too.

Keeping my reasons in mind, later that evening we attended a 50th birthday party for Flo, one of my first acquaintences in Sipesville. Flo managed the Irish pub in the same building as my apartment, and I spent many evenings working/relaxing there with her, the other waitresses, and Declan, the owner. Tripper and I, newly engaged, had attended Flo's 40th birthday party. I was a smoker then, soon be a non-smoker. I wanted to be a non-smoker for this party.

It was very difficult. Sitting at the club's bar alone was one thing, but mingling with old friends in a smoky bar was quite another. When I had been at the club, I knew I wanted to smoke. I knew this because ... well, it felt like sheets of water were dripping off my brain, leaving it dry and itchy. Now, however, it was as though my brain were covered in old paint, and I HAD to peel off that paint. Another hour passed, and the old paint had turned to concrete which had to be chiseled off. By the middle of the party, the concrete had morphed into an epoxy-resin type substance, impervious to everything except sweet, sweet carcinogens. It was as though chunks of me were floating away, and the only way to draw them back was to inhale, to caress a Marlboro or Salem Light in my mouth.

Sometime a few hours into it, I felt better. I stopped thinking of it. My brain actually felt normal, or as normal as my brain ever feels. I felt a little triumphant. It didn't hurt that I saw two women, women I don't see often. They're both just a few years older than I am, both fun, both smart, both like to party. They both look pretty old.

Now, logically I know that having good skin is nothing but a crap shoot. My friend Judy has smoked for 40 years. She has no lines around her lips. Her skin is firm. My friend Annie has never smoked but her lips look like they have. For about 100 years. Gambling has never worked for me, though, so I'll just add vanity to my list of reasons to keep climbing the mountain. I must be at base camp by now.