Kelly Quirino reminisces on her time as a smoker, her efforts to quit, and what drew her back:
I smoked for years. I would quit for a few weeks at a time occasionally, but I always went back. For me, smoking cured everything; it could be anything I needed it to be. I could celebrate, mourn, fume, and daydream. It was proof that I existed: I was interacting with my environment and leaving evidence, all the while putting forth pretty much the least amount of physical effort possible. It was an excuse to sit and look at things. I could sit and stare into the middle distance and think to myself all I wanted because I was still doing something: I was smoking.
She recently resolved to kick the habit, again:
Eight days ago, I smoked my last cigarette. It isn’t easy this time. It hurts. I wander around, feeling like there’s something I’m supposed to be doing but coming up empty. I’m crabby, and sad, and my hands feel completely useless; I have absolutely no idea what to do with them. Assuming the average length of each one of my cigarette breaks is seven minutes, then 13 percent of each 18 hour day is devoted to smoking, but I feel idle and confused and frustrated most of the time that I’m awake. Yesterday, I walked in aimless circles until finally giving up and forcing my children to play and craft with me. Cutting paper, gluing things, stringing beads, my kids are so sick of crafts that I think they’re starting to avoid me. Shunned by them by mid-afternoon, I busied myself by making three different loaves of bread. Between mindless snacking and frenzied baking, I ate at least a stick of butter over the course of a single day. But at least, I told myself at the end of the night while undoing the button of my suddenly-tight pants, at least I’m doing this for my health.
The Dish 