As of today, it has been five months since I have touched a cigraette. Wait. I take that back. There was one night when I held on to an unlit cigarette just to let my hands have the sensation. I did not light it, I did not smoke it, but I did touch it. Except for that, I have not touched a cigarette in five months. I have attended parties and gone dancing and hung out at the pub, but have not bummed a single, solitary social cigarette in all that time.
Five months, in case you weren’t aware, is very close to six months. And six months is half a year. Half a year, I tell myself, might as well be a whole year.
It’s not that I was smoking heavily, not all the time, just when particularly stressed out or particularly tipsy, but it was still bad for me. It made me cough and exacerbated my already sickly nature. I still miss them. I liked smoking. I liked the break from the day it gave me, I liked the chance it gave me to just think quietly, I liked the instant comraderie it gave me with other smokers.
But I am better for not doing it anymore. My health is better, my teeth are better, my sense of smell is shockingly better. So there you are. Five months done. Be proud of me.