If you missed my post on gaining weight as one of the things that sucked when I quit smoking, I highly recommend reading it before this post. Not to brag, but it does such a nice job of setting up the indignant, slightly bitter tone that the whole "suckage" theme is going to draw on. The truth is that, about some things at least, I am indignant; I am bitter.
The glorious narratives of quitting put stars in my eyes. Everything would be better when I quit. Everything. Everything. I feel a bit like Dorothy as she approached the Emerald City: the beautiful promise shimmering on the horizon, luring me, when all of a sudden, bam! Poisoned poppies. Crazy flying monkeys. Witches castles. Not so fast my pretty, not so fast.
The ugly truth is that I don't really feel any different.
You heard me. I don't really feel any different, and that sucks.
Now I can hear what's going through your mind. Many of you are feeling the need to encourage me anyway, tell me that I will feel better, that I need to give it time. Please resist that urge. PLEASE. I do not reveal this particular truth as a way of soliciting sympathy or encouragement. (In fact, I can be very good at asking for sympathy and encouragement quite directly when I need them.) I'm not interested in sugarcoating this and lying to myself or others. I appreciate that when other humans are experiencing suckage our natural reaction is to try and make things better. That's not what I'm after and I implore you to resist. What I want in this space is to be simply and brutally honest, especially about what sucks.
The truth: I don't feel any different. I'm slightly more fidgety I hear; I'm also a little more chatty if various reports are to be believed. So, it's not that there has been no change whatsoever -- it's just that the changes have not been of the physical variety. Now perhaps my expectations were too lofty, but I had expected to feel, well, something. (I mean, I'm supposed to be growing new cilia by now for god's sake!) I thought I might have more energy; I thought I might not get winded as quickly climbing stairs; I thought my skin would improve.
But no. Nada. Nothing. Eleven weeks along and the only difference is that my occasional morning smoker's cough has vanished. More energy? I could use a nap right now and it's not even lunch time. Increased lung capacity? Hockey practice continues to turn my lungs inside out. Improved skin? The forty-something I-want-wrinkles-and-zits-and-age-spots-all-in-the-same-place mockery continues unabated.
So I continue to wait patiently for the promised improvements to my body. At my most philosophical, I think that perhaps I will just stay the same, and my eventual middle-aged decline will simply be slower than it might otherwise have been. I remind myself that increased energy is just a bonus and that reducing my risk of lung cancer is the real benefit. I think about having the heart of a non-smoker within 10 years and my skin doesn't seem so monumental.
But it's hard to be philosophical all the time. After all, I haven't even noticed my teeth getting whiter.
Two months and my teeth aren't even getting whiter?
Dude, that's just mean.
