So. I quit smoking about a week ago.
We spent this past weekend in Lauderdale by the Sea, a sad, paved collection of vaguely refurbished low-rise mid-century motels and desolately empty low-rise bubble-era spanish style condos. The beach bars were playing Jane Says. I guess a kite-boarder had been eaten by a Great White about 40 miles to the north of where we were staying, so people were mostly staying away from the water.
Something about the other occupants of our motel - leathery snowbirds drinking from red Solo cups from sun up to sundown (we never saw anyone else after sundown, despite sitting out on our ‘deck’ which faced the center court of the motel) stole the desire to smoke from me. I guess that was my snobbish way of refusing to find even a smidge of addictive commonality with them. That and I really didn’t want to share an ashtray with them for the weekend and wind up having to play cards, or whatever it is you do with drunken older motel co-occupants before the sun goes down. They seemed to be either sitting and watching the ocean or glaring at the kids playing in the pool.
Driving back Sunday night, Tex had a panic attack while driving over a bridge around the Ft Myers area and I had to take over the driving while he chainsmoked the entire way home. Then I just didn’t smoke again. It’s now Thursday. I didn’t really mean to quit, but I will be so pissed with myself if I start smoking again now. I mean, the first few days is supposed to be the hardest, and I’m not going to have it get any harder than it currently is.
