Greetings and salutations, friends.
Well, I cinched up my big girl pants today and decided that my half-assed approach to quitting smoking wasn’t doing me any good, so I called in the help of my doctor to discuss options, aside from glueing my mouth shut, but after careful consideration, having my mouth permanently closed would be quite the disadvantage, considering I’m thinking of diving into the dating pool in the future, so I went the medication route.
I’ve been getting mixed reviews about this, as I got a prescription for Chantix. Controversial at best, and I’ve heard a lot of pros/cons about it, but after speaking with the Good Doctor Zuercher, and expressing my concerns for contraindications with my other medications, he assured me that it would be safe. Obviously, as with any drug, there are going to be side effects, such as nigh terrors, nausea, depression, and increased cardiovascular problems, but honestly, my dreams are already fucked up, I can deal with nausea as it will give me a chance to eat ginger candies guilt-free, depression is so commonplace with me now, I feel odd if I’m NOT depressed about something, and despite my family history, my ticker is good, so giving this the college try. On a related side note, maybe I’ll become less depressed once I quit smoking, as I was told the efficacy of my medication is affected by nicotine, so I may just turn out to be a merry ball of sunshine and puppy dogs. Perhaps I’ll reconsider….
While I’m on the subject of doctoring, I was weighed today. Oh. My. God. I weigh fifteen pounds less than I did when I was at my heaviest weight, and that is far too close for comfort. I have gained thirty pounds over the course of eighteen months. Fuck you, stress. Fuck you in your stress-y asshole.
I have moments of when I accept myself as-is: tall despite my short little legs, full thighs, round belly, thick arms, ample bosom, and in defiance of my efforts to crane my neck just so, a double chin, and on extra good days, I even consider myself mildly attractive. And then there are times like today, especially after I looked down at the glaring digital numbers displayed to mock me on the scale at my doctor’s office, I hate every single stretch-marked inch of my body, from my toes all the up to my greying hair and all the territory in between. I know I’ll never be a size 8, I know the stretch marks on my belly and breasts will never disappear, and I know I will always have the nose my dad gave me as a genetic gift, but damn. A girl can fantasize, can’t she?
I need to make a conscious effort to take better care of myself. I know I’m only thirty, but also, I’m thirty. My knees ache with the arthritis that has set in, which is compounded by the excess weight, which means I need to exercise more to lose weight, but it sucks to exercise because I can’t breathe due to smoking and my knees hurt. Oh, vicious cycle, you terrible bitch.
First things first: cut the cancer sticks. Fin. No mas. Done-zo. After I successfully quit smoking, I’ll delve into the magical funtime happy place that is weight loss. But not both at once. No thanks. I was asked to give up both drinking AND smoking last year while I was in rehab, and boy howdy, that was not a good week. I mean, the drinking I cut out, but I clung to smoking like scared child clings to its mother’s leg when the Easter Bunny comes around at the mall.
To recap: Chantix, no smoking, I’m chubby, and the Easter Bunny is terrifying.
Join me next time for a look at how I’m surviving. Ciao!