reason for the season

I have decided that it is integral to my success to list some reasons to quit smoking. A few pearls of motivation perhaps:

  1. Smoking = Stinky
    Could you imagine what perfume commercials would be like for cigarettes? I can only imagine a scantly clad out of breath Charlize Theron running through lavish elegant hall ways while some uber-sexed jazz music blares in the background. The tag line delivered in a heated French accent: “Want to smell like ass?” Beyond my person —this issue is extended to my car. In more ways than one. There is not an air-freshner one the market that can veil a smoker’s car. Not that I am planing on any trade-ins anytime soon, but what if, god-forbid I ever had to take a client to lunch in my car?
  2. Smoking = Expensive
    Say I did smoke a pack a day. Which —it’s pretty close. Which is something I would never tell my doctor, employer, dates, god-children, etc… you get the idea. However, if I did, my lovely little Camel Lights @ $6 a day cost me $2,190 a year. That’s a nice little vacation or a new MacBook Pro. Perhaps I should literally burn six dollars a day as an experiment and see how that works out for me.
  3. Smoking = Caughing/Stuffy nose
    Again Charlize Theron mid parfume commercial make-out with some hunk and has to blow her nose. How hot is that? I’m not saying that this has happened to me, but I fear that if I continue into my thirties with this nasty habit, it could very well be a mortifying next day phone call to my best friend Josie.
  4. Smoking = Death
    If you don’t believe me, just ask my Grammy. She died of lung cancer in 1997. She was the best. She’s the only grand-parent I was ever really close to. She was also hilarious. She was that grandmother that swore and brought all the filthy jokes to the table, but would do anything for anyone. I miss her, but I know she’s resting in heaven with her husband. Her death doesn’t motivate me to quit in the way you would think it does. The true sadness of my grandmother’s absence is the fact that my twenty-year-old brother has very little memories of her. Sure as she was a quick-witted spit-fire, he is merciless smart ass, and I can’t even begin to imagine how the two of them would have rapped with each other. What I wouldn’t give for a front row seat to that. Who and what would I miss out on if I don’t “quit while I’m ahead”?
  5. Smoking = Seamstress Stress
    I swear that I have a tiny little burn hole in each one of my winter coats. And a few in my car. This is embarrassing. Perhaps one day I should take a ball of yarn and connect all of the things in possession that have cigarette burns in them. Chinese jump rope through that mess.
  6. Smoking = Wrinkles
    This should really be moved to the top of the list. The story about Grammy pulls on the heart-strings, but I really need something to appeal to my vanity. There’s this one, say sixty-ish, waitress at this local restaurant who is so tan, wrinkly and has a voice like a man. I should tape her picture to my mirror. Her laughing sounds like my sister’s cat hissing —Seriously, “KKCHHEEEERCHHH”. That’s how it sounds. (Sound it out —It’s like nails on a chalk board.) I have every intention of aging elegantly like Jackie Onasis, them ciggies may get in the way of that. Plus, I don’t think I will be able to afford Botox.
  7. Smoking = Reproductive Issues
    Granted if I was preggers now, I’d have to sell my mini-me on the black-market. (A tough sell —the ad would go something like this: Super opinionated, flannel wearing baby with a small fortune in student loans seeks loving parents that will keep her knee deep in Miller Lights and clutch purses.) On a serious note: I cry when I walk through the baby shoe isle at Target, so I think that means I’d really like to have maybe one or two tots somewhere down the line. And while I have spent my twenties avoiding the conception thereof, I would be a hot mess if I finally hit the baby making bricks and found out that the only thing I’ll be giving birth to is a carton of Camel Lights.
  8. Smoking = Can’t out-run a Serial Killer
    I have no intentions of this happening to me, but if I ever had to out-run an assailant, axe-murder or an angry republican, I would probably just hand them my purse, my head on a platter or my all of my rights. (jk, jk, my republican friends). I can run for about a minute and 47 seconds without wanting to throw up. Plus the next guy that actually means that he really wants to take Salsa lesson will not be horribly embarrassed when all theother sixty-five years old continue to cut a rug while I need to take an Oxygen break. (Please note: These theories have never been tested.)
  9. Smoking = Judgment
    All you smokers know about this: It’s that every-so-often “I-am-better-than-you” or “I-know-what-kind-of-person-you-are” look from a non-smoker. Some may say that I might just be a little over-sensitive, but those of you who have been on the receiving end of these looks know exactly what I am talking about. (And those of you who give those looks know exactly what I am talking about as well.) It’s as if the fact that you smoke cigarettes has a direct effect on what kind of values, ethics or morals you have. Just because I smoke doesn’t make me gang banging Rizzo from Grease. I’m not going to go into detail, but this has happened to me and it makes me so angry that I almost want to keep smoking to prove that just because I smoke doesn’t make me a bad person. But if I quit I will be absolutely immune to these looks and the power they have over me. And if, as a future non-smoker, I ever give one of those looks —I hope the smoker puts their cigarette out in my eye.
  10. Smoking = Lack of Self Control
    I’m kinda the boss of me. Not cigarettes. I find it incredibly annoying that I have to make time for smoking, get irritated by the abscence of ciggarettes and have to actually take time out of my day to buy them. Not only is smoking shaving years off my life in regards to my health, but it has just plain taken up too much of my time. I also find it repugnant that I am a slave to a small white tightly wrapped stick of tobacco that has been so nonreciprocal of anything in my life. Sure I’ve made fast friends with other smoke-breakers and have the metabolism of a teenager, but seriously, what have they ever done for me? For reals? Who is the boss of me? Me, not the Marlboro Man.

So those are the reason for the season. I have eighteen more days to be my Camel Light’s bitch, better blaze up.

Other News:
Mr. Pink called me while I was at work last night. He didn’t leave a message. He probably needed a break from eating babies and stealing their souls.

Tomorrow: Trainer Matt and his hair gel. Need new ASICS stat.

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