|
I was thirteen the day elementary school superstar Doug Guadron came to me with a pack of Marlboro Reds. "We should totally smoke," he said, that dreamy smile curling his lips. "Totally," I agreed. Doug was prime boyfriend material. I would've followed him anywhere. I would've shot heroin right there on the playground if he had asked me to. We snuck into the woods behind the gym. We held hands and smoked. We spent our recess in this way: gagging and coughing, reeling from the buzz, mastering the art of the inhale and savoring the smoky stench of ourselves. We felt like cowboys-awkward, underdeveloped, prepubescent cowboys, but cowboys all the same. We knew we were being bad, but that's what made it so good. Thus began my love affair with smoking. I broke up with Doug a week later. To the cigarettes, I committed. Fast-forward twelve years. I'm a pack-a-day smoker. I've got stinky hair, yellow fingernails, stained teeth, ashtray breath, a hacking cough complete with blackened phlegm and a total inability to quit. I turned to Chantix. It was a nightmare, a punishment, a plague. It was the absolute worst. The top of the worst. I was on the drug for three hellish months, twelve torturous weeks, eighty-four interminable days. This was all the time it took for this fun-sucking, mind-warping, social-life-wrecking, pill-shaped evil to put me off quitting . . . forever. In the first four weeks, my body rebelled. It waged war on itself. Systems went haywire. I couldn't poop. I could barely stand for the boulder in my belly. I lost my sense of taste. No coffee, no beer, no greasy meal or fatty snack could save me now. And to top it all off, the smell of smoke now made me want to hurl. Just like that, the world on Chantix seemed just a little bit darker. The following weeks saw what little sanity I had left go up in smoke-not literally, of course (the puking, remember?). Suddenly, I was on speed. This was not the pop-an-aderol-to-get-through-finals-and-don't-worry-it'll-wear-off-in-a-day kind of speed, but permanent insobriety. All. The. Time. I stopped sleeping. I couldn't sit still. I invented projects, ridiculous projects to pass the time. I built birdhouses from popsicle sticks. I put all of my CDs in the wrong cases and challenged myself to remember where they were. I made prank phone calls to loved ones (that actually was kind of funny). I made collaged ransom notes and held my teddy bear hostage for heinous sums of money. This nonsense went on for some time until, finally, in my twelfth and final week, circumstances came to a head. I was at a fancy restaurant with my boyfriend (not Doug Guadron). I was discovering the joys of Grey Poupon wall art -- Look, honey, a rabbit! -- and he, trying desperately to ignore me. "I feel weird," I announced. "What kind of weird?" Belch, vomit. Right there on the table, in my food and his. "That kind," I said. "Are you using your napkin?" We were asked to leave, my Dijon bunny was left unfinished and it became clear that my Chantix antics had gone far enough. Me and Chantix, we don't mix. A world that denies me the pleasures of food, sanity and company is one I can do without. A cigarette break, I want. A smoke over a beer with friends, I want. A post-coital cigarette, I want. Is it childish to value instant gratification over my health? Doubtless it is. I guess I'm still that thirteen year old girl at heart, sneaking off for a smoke and reveling in the thrill of a bad decision... Chantix, I hate your guts. Cigarettes, will you go out with me? | ||||||||||||||
|
|