This picture is the story of my life:
Things that seem like good ideas, end up not being so. Like the time I reasoned that a non-stick oven tray wouldn’t burn if used to make pancakes on the stove top. Turns out that burn marks do indeed stick to non-stick oven trays. It’s also very hard to hide burnt out non-stick oven trays. Particularly when they were not originally purchased by you.
The queen of the awkward situation. That awkward moment when having a pelvic ultrasound, and the radiologist has to use that dildo thing to check out your ovaries, but in order to offer you some dignity doesn’t look where she’s sticking the probe and takes ages to find the right hole and accidentally finds a not quite right hole. Trying to subtly shift your lower regions in an effort to assist apparently is totally unhelpful, by the way.
Captain Failure-to-think-things-through. Sticking my finger into the tank of an alligator gar, just to see if it would try to snap at it. It did. I screamed. Screamed, and almost shat myself. Take a look at those teeth and tell me you would react differently!
The cause of most embarrassment. Making a fart sound into my message tone on my phone. Then going with my flat mate to a fancy arse jewellery and artisan shop. Then in the midst of browsing in a most grown up manner, receiving a text message. The look of horror on the shop assistant’s face, only outdone by the look of shame on my flat mate’s face, which I fear was only outdone by the look of total glee on my own face.
This brings me to today. Today, Friday, the cusp of a weekend of some importance. You see, I just did something I try not to do very often. I paused, and took a look at myself.
I’m currently curled up on the lounge, with my Scouty girl passed out at the other end of the lounge. In the pauses between typing, I habitually pop a hand up the leg of my shorts. I’m wearing rainbow ankle socks, Crocs, and a skateboarding Jesus shirt. Every so often, I break into song (Scouty loves music).
So, I ask you: Does this sound like a woman who should ever contemplate giving up smoking? Seriously! It was probably the most normal thing about me.
But today, dear friends, I’ve clocked over 120 days of being smoke free. Four months. Four long, debilitating, asthma filled, anxiety ridden, totally unsatisfying months. I’ve longed, I’ve cried, I’ve stropped. I’ve been angry, sad, proud, slightly constipated and very smug. Guilt ridden, lonely, happy and excited.
And I reckon that sums up what it is like, trying to quit smoking.
I’ve done some pretty strange shit in my time. And often, the best response has had to be “Don’t ask, but yes, I could use some help”.
Don’t ask… But yes. I could use some help.