My boyfriend – let’s call him Auggie – is quitting smoking. Today is Day 3 and he just rang a couple of minutes ago to tell me he had caved in and had smoked a whole pack of ciggies. I hope to God he’s joking.
I know quitting is not easy but hell, that’s why they call it an addiction! If it were easy, it wouldn’t be an addiction, would it? It would simply be a hobby or something.
Anyways, he was having a rather hard time the past three days. Kind of crabby. Feeling out of touch with reality. Fidgety, fidgety, fidgety. Increased appetite … just so that he has something to do with his mouth. Keep it busy, you know. I know he was fighting the urge to light up, which would explain the many hours he spent wrapped up in the comforter, forcing himself to sleep.
Auggie grumbles that I have no idea how tough it is to quit smoking. Well, of course, I wouldn’t. I’ve never smoked my entire life. I have no idea what it feels like to smoke; I have no idea what it feels like to go cold turkey. What I do know is that he MUST quit. There are no two ways about it.
He knows it too, which is why he gave me a date: November 25, 2006. Cold turkey. We have a pact: whenever he feels the urge, he will either (1) call me - so that I can knock some sense into his head and launch into my lengthy 'do you want to die early?' diatribe, (2) chew some gum or (3) eat something, anything.
So far today, I've called him three times. He's called me none. I wonder what that means?
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