Eight years ago Monday, I quit smoking.
There are a couple of factions of people in my life who will have completely opposite reactions. There are the ones I went to high school with who can’t imagine their valedictorian doing anything “bad.”
I tried to find a picture of myself from high school and failed. I should have raided my mom’s photo albums today. The only one I had access to was one my friend Beth sent me. It contains about 7 other people, none of whom — save her and our friend Jenny — would be thrilled about appearing on some random lesbian’s blog. Oh, and Beth’s husband is there with another lady. So let’s just say I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes.
College BFF Sarah. And some awkward man in drag.
I smoked all. the. time. Back then, you could smoke in a lot more places, like in bars.
One girl in my sorority called the “The Smoking Mon,” which was apparently an “X-Files” reference. And my favorite bar was nicknamed Smokin’ Mon’s in honor of my patronage (and pile of cigarettes I left in my wake).
I’m pretty sure my high-school peers pictured something different — a lot more books, a lot more flannel.
Anyway, I left college with a degree and a pack-a-day habit. All things considered, it could have been worse.
I quit once about a month before my dad died, and, well, that didn’t last long.
But two days after my 30th birthday, I lit up for the last time. I wish I could say that I don’t miss it ever, that I don’t still crave them, that I don’t wish I could be one of those smokers who have one every now and then, but I can’t.
I can, say, though, that Chris would kill me if I ever started smoking again.
And how could I give this up?
Happy Quit Day, Monica. Way to not light things on fire and inhale them!