The good news is that food will taste fantastic.
The bad news is that food will taste fantastic.
Lately, the fact that my tongue is coated with a film of ickiness skeeves me. My manicotti was too salty because my taste buds are numb. And oh, yeah the price of cigarettes is almost six bucks.
It’s time to quit smoking.
Quitting means I won’t have to scout smoker friendly spots when I’m out and that car trips are no longer punctuated with frequent stops to get a fix. It means I won’t have complete strangers asking to buy a smoke, and that I don’t stand in bad weather to get my hit, causing the smoker’s cough to turn into an exercise of loosening phlegm. I will not risk anymore burns in the couch, the car, my clothes. No more loose tobacco in my lipstick. My index finger will go back to pink rather than the yellow tinge. I won’t carry the scent of eau de Newport and potheads won’t think I’m one of them because my lips are dark.
I won’t burn anymore fingernails and I won’t have to sit in a cold house hoping the Mister ignores the smoky smell in the house or that I sneak and pretend when I am caught smoking in the bathroom. I can give rides and not feel bad that my passenger will leave with the smell of my last smoke.
The cons are the fact that I know I’m going to explode and expand. I’m allowing an extra 8 pounds (the so called average that ex smokers gain) and more Double Bubble to compensate.