Tomorrow, it will be five months since I last had a cigarette. Not even a teensy bit of one has passed my lips in that time.
You might remember that I’ve given up smoking three times in my adult life. I wrote about it here. Each time, I lasted five months. So the coming week is crunch time. Survive this and I’ve done it. I’ve beaten it. I’ll be like Lance Armstrong, Oprah Winfrey or Kerry Katona. I shall be renewed. Like a knight in shining armour. From a long time ago.
It genuinely is lovely not to smoke. Life is cheaper. Breaks are longer. Sleep is sounder. Smells are nicer. Throats are unphlegmier. And Connor is fragranter.
So I just have to break this barrier over the next week or so, which I totally will do. Because I rock.
I rock when it comes to not smoking. In pretty much every other area of my life, I haven’t rocked an awful lot this week.
I spent nearly a week in Cork, where I was doing some work and where my Dad was having a serious operation. That’s never going to put you in a good mood. There were little victories, like where he was able to speak, with perfect clarity, about Descartes’ ontology less than 48 hours after the op. Yes that is the kind of family I come from. But there were plenty of scary bits too, which I won’t write about.
I’ve been ok with eating, but not perfect. I’m excellent at making excuses. I can’t imagine a time when I’d be able to say that I hadn’t binged in five months.
But that time will come. And if I rock as much as I sometimes think I do, then that time will come in about five months.
I’m off out hoping to get drunk tonight. I won’t smoke. Tomorrow morning, I’ll start rocking again. In all kinds of ways.