This week, we shall look at what cold turkey is shaping up to look like. My story will reference dreadlocks, cigarette caresses and how to be a witch, but in a nice way.
You may have noticed in the past few weeks that the tagline has changed from "Trying to Quit" to "Quitting." For all the ups and downs and slips and slides, I have never not once let go of my desire to become a non-smoker. In quits past, attempts were followed by failures and failures were followed by amnesia.
It made for a nice little parade; a bon vivant as marshal, pomping it up in front (Come one! Come all! See me quit!) with a smoky fugue state bringing up the rear (Who me? I said I wanted to quit? Really?).
This time, my grand marshal seems to realize that its rightful place is in the back of the line, eating humble pie and pushing fugue state along every time it holds up the works.
On day two of cold turkey, I had to move a couch. A big comfy sectional couch designed for a great room, not for the crooked Colonial space in which I actually live. My friend assured me (being male) it would fit and we undertook the project together. We commenced at the U-Haul on the Bypass where, waiting for my turn, the first murderous cold turkey urges occurred.
The completely appropriate and nice gentleman behind the counter had a beautiful head of dreadlocks, the more than 10-year kind, at least. For five awful minutes, I would have traded my soul for a big pair of industrial scissors. I envisioned myself leaping over the counter brandishing them as sword and slashing through each gnarled coil. When it finally came time in the real world for our turn, it was a terrible downturn to discover that I needed to return home to get proof of insurance.
The short drive afforded my frontal lobes the opportunity to talk to the rest of my brain, and I returned to U-Haul to confess my situation to the gentleman. He understood, he used to smoke himself, and quit after seeing evidence of the scam perpetrated on the populous by big tobacco. I was still antsy waiting for the rental truck process to play out, with lots of overflow movement in my limbs (dance anyone?) but my inner witch was at least demonstrating a modicum of sociability.
That lasted until we got the couch into my front hall, where it sat on the floor and refused to budge. You can't stay here, I admonished it. It curled its couch lip petulantly back at me and remained silent. Thankfully, my friend, joined now by my neighbor, knew how to take charge of the situation (taking charge in this case involved implements such as screwdrivers and brute force) and the couch finally made it into the living room.
Throughout, I didn't smoke. I can't say I have been 100 percent abstinent since Oct. 18, but I can say I have not smoked more cigarettes than I can count on one hand. In talking to people who have succeeded, it seems cold turkey can look different for different people. There is the lady at my coffee shop for whom cold turkey was just that. Done. Finis. "If you are smoking one a day, you don't need any at all," says coffee shop wisdom.
There is my friend Marge, who looks at life with years of accumulated experience, and who was my mother's longtime partner in jazz and smoking crime. She kept a pack in her freezer for a long time, and would take one out each night and hold it for a while before taking just one drag. There is my friend Andy, who quit after he got a cold and didn't smoke for one whole day because his body didn't want to. Then he didn't smoke for two whole days, and so on until that turned into 10 smoke-free years.
Finally, I seem to have spoken to a lot of men who quit on a bet (oh, lovely competitive natures...;.). So, bottom line is, I'm doing OK. Yes, none is best. None remains the goal. But for today, less is better than giving up my goal completely.
Suzanne actually forgot this year and had to be reminded about the Saturday night Halloween dance at the Jumbo Circus Peanuts world headquarters. Swear to God. suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
