I have been faced with a novel challenge this week in my quest, journey, desire and intention to quit smoking. It is called "being in the car." I need to "be in the car" on a fairly regular basis right now because of work.
The good news is that it is real, live writing-type work. The bad news is that it is for writing-type pay and it takes me 27 miles to and from my house each morning and evening. It is during these miles that I am having trouble forgetting that I don't smoke on long drives anymore.
The fight starts quickly between the nail biting, pen-cap crunching, gum-chewing confident self and the knocked-off-center-at-the-improbability-of it-all self. One of these selves sometimes has cigarettes on her or stops to get some. Can you guess which one?
It is a small personal trial in the big scheme of things, but I was dismayed to realize that I haven't quite broken the car habit.
The patch is still my friend, it can be found in various places on my body, in case you are looking. But it seems to forget it has a job to do once I get in the car and am faced with the very long drive to or home from the courthouse.
For a smoker, to "be in the car" means to be in a solitary place in which to light up. This became such an ingrained habit that I used to light up between home and Pic 'n' Pay (a shamefully short distance to either drive or smoke).
Smoking and driving got to be habitual, ingrained, reflexive.
For a long time now I have not had to rely on my car to transport me very far. There were a few long drives between here and there, but mostly I stayed put enough to walk where I needed to go.
With my recent move back to Portsmouth I anticipated working mostly from home, walking to get groceries, have fun and exercise the dog. I did not anticipate getting this temporary work.
Until now, I was sure I had broken the car habit. I stopped equating my car keys with a butt and I was able to get in my car, zoom off and not even miss the little ... sticks, a name I use in the interest of keeping this column censor friendly. "Sticks" is not the first word that comes to mind, but I can't print the first word that comes to mind here, or even the second.
I really want to use those words, though, because "being in the car" is a danger zone. Evidently I broke the car habit because I wasn't really driving anywhere. Couldn't the gods have seen clear to visit me with one more year of not really driving anywhere, so I could really truly break the habit?
Once I arrive, I'm fine; I have a job to do. Never mind that the subject matter is mass market, true crime, burn barrels and horrifying details; it's a job, it pays and I focus on it. During breaks, I can walk the grounds, enjoy the spring breezes, eat my brown bag lunch, gaze at the pond and forget I am a smoker.
Twists of fate, no matter how small, bite one on the butt. It has to do in part with expectations. I have high expectations, too high, of myself and others and I have worked to rein them in. Even so, I have circuitously learned that it is the expectations you don't know you have that really hurt.
I remember the first time I had an expectation that was not fulfilled. My mother's friend, a former nun, was in need of a room at my (private women's) college, where she had lived many years prior. Her husband was next door in Beth Israel with a heart attack. He was a former priest. They met. They loved each other and left their respective orders to try and navigate the world of relationship. The administration said no, she could not stay there.
Naively, until it occurred, it was an expectation I didn't know I had.
He recovered. And she did OK too, although they did not ultimately make it as a couple.
All I can come up with for an explanation of my current situation is that the gods work in mysterious way. We are each visited with situations we could never anticipate, and that we don't want but that present themselves to us nonetheless.
If the gods had not seen fit to offer up the surprises of this job, I doubt the patch would be suffering this type of amnesia.
Perhaps my new job and its personal attendant trials are meant to desensitize me?
It's the best I can come up with.
What's the best you can come up with? suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
