I quit smoking three weeks ago, “cold turkey,” so to speak, in that I haven’t had a single cigarette since.
Going without has been easier than I thought it would be. For whatever reason, my urge to smoke gave out in about a week. After five years of going through about a pack daily and sometimes more, that was quite surprising.
And I found out this weekend that I can even go out and have a few drinks (or many drinks) and watch my friends smoke and not join them in it, without any great effort.
Still, when I walk by or into a place where I used to buy cigarettes, the thought of purchasing a pack does creep into my mind. It is not an urge, just a thought: I could just get a pack of cigarettes. The thought is not hard to tamp down, but that it reappears regularly shows that some vestige of my habit remains.
Maybe the cold weather keeps me from it, since I’d have to smoke outside.
And I did feel guilty yesterday morning because all the clothes that I’d worn out the night before smelled of smoke.
But I don’t think of myself as a smoker, anymore, at least not over the past week. The act seems strange, in a way that it hasn’t before. It seems unnecessary.
Maybe I will keep it up this time.