I was going to call this "Still Wanting to Rip My Face Off," but figured it would only make sense to someone who's actually quit smoking as well. After all, June 16th, my quit date, was (to the rest of the world) only a little over three weeks ago. To me, it's been a very long time, full of extremely long days.
Today I followed two lists through three stores. One list was for Ben and Ruth: things to bring to Holland with us, because they can't get them there. What kind of country doesn't sell Cheerios? How can a child survive without them or graham crackers? Grandma to the rescue. I'd include Grandpa in that, but he sits out in the car listening to his HAM radio while I follow the lists up and down the aisles. Deodorant, baby socks with lace, paint with water books.
There's her list, and then there's my list: Salsa, eggs, birthday card. Easy things. The hard part lately is being in the store alone. They sell cigarettes. Nobody knows me in there. I could sneak right over and buy some. There's a side door, and I could... never mind. You know what I mean. It's just very hard getting in and out of the store with my decision intact.
So far so good, but today was particularly difficult. I hope you're all still praying for me. Some of you probably don't know it, but I quit once for six years. One smoke, and I was back at it. That was twenty some years ago. I never admit exactly how many. I've tried to quit too many times since to count. I've made it as much as a year and a half. Pretty bad, huh?
Everybody thinks once the first couple of weeks are past, just say "congratulations," and forget about it. If you do, you'll probably wind up catching me smoking in the garage some day. I hope not. Just being honest.