The Girl Who Cried No Smoking


Welp, it’s that time of month again; no, not that time…the time where I get all evangelical about smoking and try to renounce the wicked ways of nicotine. BE HEALED, SMOKER!!

I started a beginning running program this past Wednesday, and for a chubber like me who hasn’t done a willful act of physical activity in two years, I thought I did pretty damn good. I wasn’t able to run as much as I wanted, but I was running, damn it. My diseased lungs prevented me from doing so, so of course, now I’m anti-smoking [takes drag of cigarette].

I’m sure you’re all bored to tears by me saying I’m going to quit. Quite frankly, I’m tired of it, as well. But current and former smokers know where I’m coming from. Once you start, it’s painfully difficult to stop. Goddamn sweet, wonderful, delicious nic sticks…

However, I’d like to try to quit for real this time. I don’t know if you know this, but running–hell, everyday life–requires a certain lung capacity that I just don’t have anymore. Running on Wednesday made me painfully, painfully aware of this fact.

Oddly enough, running has also made smoking even more painful. I’m sitting outside this morning, trusty cup of joe and my last two cigs in my pack next to me. My lungs and chest protest with each drag: “STOP IT. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD, STOP IT.” And I’ll be damned if I’m finally taking the hint. Weird, right?

[lights up second cigarette, coughs] I’m ridiculous.

As you know, my last post was about getting healthier. As I mentioned before, I’m overweight and am currently in the process of trying to lose about 60 pounds. At last weigh in, I was down about 5 pounds, so yay for me! But because I’m smart and stuff, I know that in order to help me reach my goal weight of 200 pounds, I need to kick up my activity a notch, hence the running schtick. I actually used to run regularly about three years ago, thanks to the same program I started this week, but a broken foot and the rapid decline of my marriage got in the way of me continuing, so I stopped, and add emotional eating and a case of the fuckits also caused my steady decline into the tubby zone.

I’ve started dating again and a date about three months ago made me realize that, and this still pisses me off, while my personality and general awesomeness are much desired, unfortunately, physical attraction also plays a large role in the dating ritual. The guy was nice enough, but I could feel his eyes judging me physique–or lack of one–and the first date was also the last and I haven’t heard from him since. I’m not saying because I’m overweight was the sole cause of this, because to be honest, I thought this guy was kind of a toolbox, but still. Maybe it’s my blazing lack of self-esteem and poor self-image are making me think the reason he didn’t like me was due to my weight, but I also know enough that our society has mind-fucked us all into thinking people should weigh x amount to be considered attractive. This is messed up for sure, but unfortunately, it’s how we roll this day and age.

So, in order for me to feel better about myself, which as some may know, I generally perceive myself in a wholly negative light, I’m going to drop some poundage. Will this make me happy? To an extent, yes, but not because I’ll think I’ll be finally able to live up to societal standards, but I’ll be lying if I said that didn’t play some tiny role in that. I know, I know–people need to like me for who I am regardless of my waistline, and I wish I could share that mentality, but truth be told, it doesn’t work that way. But looking more appealing to the opposite sex isn’t my only motive or the main one: I am not getting any younger, as I turn 31 in a few weeks (twenty-days, to be exact), and I’m aware that as you get older, your metabolism goes “….aaaannnnddd fuck you, too.” It becomes harder to lose weight, which is also proof to me there is no god, but that’s a different subject for another time.

Thus begins Operation Get Healthy. Eat better (sorry, beer; you’ve been a wonderful friend to me…), exercise more (and one and two and three and four and feel the burn and three and four…), and quit smoking (and I’ll miss you most of all, Marlboro Man…).

Let’s do this shit! Let’s do it! After I finish this cigarette…

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