And on the seventh day God ended His work which He had done, and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done.
Then God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it, because in it He rested from all His work which God had created and made.
And God awakened on the eighth day, and looked upon his creation, and God said, “Behold, it is good, but the man and woman should awaken in the morning with a delicious, energizing beverage.”
And the Lord God commanded the man and woman saying, “Drink coffee, and be energized, and enjoy the earth and all of its fruit, especially the beverage made from the roasted bean of the coffee plant.”
And the evening and the morning were the eighth day.
That’s probably how it went, and even if it didn’t, there’s no doubt that coffee is a divine creation.
You know what my coffee is missing, though? A cigarette to accompany it.
If coffee is from God, cigarettes are from the devil.
Damn, but I miss smoking. Miss it hard. If I was one of those people who could smoke just 2-3 cigarettes a day, I would totally do that.
I’m definitely not that kind of person. I’m a smoke-all-day, every-chance-you-get, ruin-your-health-as-fast-as-you-can smoker. I would write an ode to cigarettes here, but I have a feeling that wallowing in fabulous memories of The Cigarette Years would not be helpful in my quest to remain a non-smoker.
I got hooked on cigarettes immediately after I tried smoking. I loved the smooth feel of a brand-new pack of smokes; the removing of one slender, lovely-smelling cigarette from that pack; the snick of my disposable lighter; the tiny sizzle when I took that first drag.
Inhale, pause, exhale.
When I was a (very) young adult, my friends (everyone wave hello to Kim and Courtney!) said I smoked like a non-smoker, which I suppose means I looked . . . awkward, perhaps? Yeah, like I cared. I just wanted to suck on those damn things all day long.
When I was 22, I quit smoking for, I dunno, maybe the 15th time. No way to know if it would have taken but I got pregnant with Jacob and was so sick that virtually all smells made me puke, so that was it. I quit smoking and stayed quit for over 5 years.
Yes, after 5 years smoke-free, I had a fight with my sister and, in a moment of defeatism, bought a pack of cigarettes.
The first cigarette? D I V I N E
There I was, huddled in my backyard, freezing, thinking, “Why did I ever quit this? Oh, my God, this is awesome.”
It took maybe a week before I remembered why I quit: I smelled like shit, I felt like shit, and my bank account seemed to have sprung a leak. Also? Going outside every hour or more in the middle of winter is, how shall we say, unpleasant.
So I quit smoking again.
And a few months later, I started.
And then I quit.
And a few years later, I started.
My best estimate is that I’ve been a non-smoker for 85% of my adult life. I don’t want to be a smoker; much as I enjoy a cigarette (and I do; I really, really do) I can’t afford it, either physically or financially.
It pisses me off that even though I haven’t smoked in several years (or so; I stopped keeping track a dozen quits ago) and I still crave it.
I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee and I’m going to enjoy it sans cigarette.
Nobody said I have to like it.
I need a cigarette craving exorcism, I think.