So. I haven’t had a cigarette in 48 hours. And nobody has died.
I can’t say I wasn’t irritable. I shouted at the radio when someone called Bora Bora the most beautiful island in the world. Now, I have never been to Bora Bora. I have no strong opinions on which are the most beautiful islands in the world or which are the least beautiful islands in the world. In fact, I really don’t care about islands all that much. But for some reason, when someone on the radio innocently called Bora Bora the most beautiful island in the world, I roared “How the fuck do you know? Have you been to every island in the world? Are you some kind of international expert on islands and their relative beauty?”
Rant done. But I had another little rant at Twitter later. Paris Hilton spelled “overwhelmed” as two words, and then spelled “thank you” as one word. I snapped.
Now, I didn’t cheat. Though I wanted to. “Who would know?” I asked myself. But I stayed firm. Like an Egyptian mummy.
I had two relatively normal conversations yesterday. When I sat down with them, my conversational partners did look like giant cigarettes, like in the quit smoking ads, and I resisted the urge to reach across the table and suck on their necks. I was quite impressed with my fortitude, but my mood didn’t improve.
The one great thing that distracted me from my smokefree hell was a hit towel shave. Obviously, I don’t have the money for hot towel shaves (though when I’m rich, I’ll have one every day). I had a voucher as a present, and it was a good present. For one glorious hour, I forgot about cigarettes. I love massages of any kind and this particular barber wanted to make very sure I relaxed. She massaged and applied ointments and elixirs, powders and potions. She offered me free brandies, beers and cigars, none of which I accepted. She primped me and preened me. She made a little Buddha of me. The Buddha of Grafton Street. Breathing in all that hot steam also did wonders for my nose. My lingering flu-like symptoms were gone.
The only drawback were her long pointy fingernails. Now, I maintain that if you’re in a job where you touch people, whether you’re a hairdresser, a doctor, a tailor, a dentist or a masseur you should have short nails. Nails that won’t cut people. And certainly not coloured nails. Drawing attention to themselves. Saying “Look at us. We’re nails. And we’re coming to cut you up.” I don’t know where this fear of long, girly, colourful nails comes from. But it’s real.
Anyway, two whole days is the best I’ve done without cigarettes since the start of Project Connor. If I approach you sounding frustrated and begging for cigarettes, just give me a massage. Unless you’ve got pointy fingernails.