I’m 55 days off of smoking cigarettes.
Quitting is an incredibly difficult feat; urban legend tells us that it takes most people an average of seven attempts to quit successfully. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried. Though you’d think that triumphing over alcohol and bulimia would render nicotine an easy feat, it’s been anything but. In theory, it’s odd that I ever took up smoking in the first place. I’m incredibly vain and I’ve always been active. One of my first memories is comprised of rummaging through my mom’s glove box to find a cherry-red pack of Marlboro reds and subsequently tossing them out the window of the moving car while smiling devilishly at her. Needless to say, she was furious with me, and I was crushed that she didn’t find my antics charming. Several years of a pack-a-day habit later, I understand completely.
