The next day

I awoke dull-eyed and lank-tailed in the not-quite-full throes of a cigarette hangover. More like a small dangleover, I guess. It wasn't as bad as a night of drinking and smoking at the bar, when you could still smoke indoors that is, when gobbling two full packs was not unheard of, your smoke-and-lighter hand racing furiously all night with your drinking hand to see who would bring home the gold.

But still, it was something this morning, as I groaned at the bright daggers of sun slipping eel-like through the slats of the bedroom blinds. No, I didn't reach for my smokes right off, that's one habit I kicked some time ago. I prefer instead to reach for the steaming coffee mug Donna leaves for me on the nightstand, delaying one addiction while satisfying another. OK. I'll be honest, gallons of coffee a day is yet another habit I kicked to the curb years ago, and it's a rare day when I have more than my morning cup, although I sip throughout the day, enjoying it even more as the cool, muddy concoction it becomes by mid-day.

This morning however, after several hard, rapping backhanded shots at the snooze button, my eyes snapped open with the realization of what I had done the day before. That is, precisely, my agreement to try and quit smoking while keeping a diary of my attempt.

And since I'm being so bloody honest -- which means I'll tell the truth about what I tell you though I won't necessarily tell you everything -- I'm having my third smoke of the day even as I write this.

I know. I know. You feel cheated. Like Kathy Lee Gifford. Or Al Gore. This blog, after all, is subtitled A Quitter's Journal. But I can't help it. The more I think about quitting, stumbling haphazardly through my mind wondering about how I might approach such a gargantuan task, the more helpless and foolish I feel -- the more in need of my little white friends, who have never failed to quell my doubts in the past, if only for a little while.

So now what to do? I have always proclaimed loudly and to whomever would listen that if ever I should choose to quit smoking -- though I never would, because I enjoy it and you could die at any time anyway -- I would do it through sheer force of will. Fuelled by booze and the somewhat-attentive and mostly-drunk spectators at my local, I would say these words in my booming, drunk-guy's voice, full of twisted pride and self-importance. Each time, when I was done spraying spittle across the room and my not-so-captive audience, I had won myself over. Looking back, I feel less convinced.

But, for lack of a patch or some nicotine gum, that is how I shall begin.