Day 21: How to Help a Quitter

I think, if you have never been addicted to something, then you can't really know what its like to give up smoking.



If you were addicted to crack or smack or meth, then you win, because I have no idea what its like to be stoopid.

When you're quitting smoking, people like to tell you their stories of quitting stuff. Lots of people claim they smoked and "quit after college," but after a few minutes of conversation you find out that this person was never A Smoker. This person was a Social Smoker -- better known to pack-a-day Smokers (like yours truly) as Wasted-Guy-Who-Bums-Off-You or Friend-Who-Thinks-Not-Buying-A-Pack-But-Smoking-Half-of-Yours-Still-Means-He's-A-NonSmoker. These people like to claim they were smokers in college, because in college smoking was cool. Now, smokers are sort of like the scourge of society -- banished to sidewalks in sub-zero weather and further condemned for their inclination to litter when an ashtray is unavailable.

So when Social Smokers try to claim they can relate to what I'm going through, I smile and nod, but on the inside I'm thinking: Your "empathy" is actually a little insulting.

Because, bitch, I smoked for 15 years. Yeah. You smoked for FOUR.

I win.

(Okay, that's laughable. What do I win? Emphysema? Heart disease? Yellow teeth? Wrinkles? An Iron Lung?)



But it got me thinking: People don't know what to say to someone who recently quit smoking. And that's okay. It just means I need to write a guide for folks who want to support a Quitter.



There are a number of guides on this topic just a quick Google search away, but most of them offer vague advice like "Be positive!" or advice for spouses like "Pack snacks in the Quitter's lunch with positive messages hidden inside!"





Let's be more pragmatic, shall we?



1. Realize that the Quitter has just totally overhauled her lifestyle.


This means: everything is different. For fifteen years I smoked when I: drank coffee, finished a task, got frustrated, was bored, accomplished something big, was sad, talked on the phone, began my evening, took the dog outside to pee, hung out with girlfriends, drove around running errands, finished a meal, left my parents' place, had a bad day at work....



Now I don't have anything to do when I do those things. Its uncomfortable. It makes me feel... not me. And it makes it hard for me to do the things I used to to.



Be patient. I will get back to myself. I just need to figure out what non-smoker me looks like.




2. Do not talk about the health benefits of quitting.


First of all, I already know smoking is bad for me and quitting is good for me. I passed high school health class too.



Second, I know there is some damage I have done to my body that cannot be undone. When you talk about how my health will improve, I think about the things that won't go back to before. That stresses me out. Know what I used to do when I was stressed? I smoked. Don't stress a smoker out. Ever.


3. Listen to me.


There are a few people in my life who are very close to me who will not let me talk about quitting. Its okay. I still love you. They think talking about it will make me think about smoking and therefore make me want a cigarette.


It doesn't work like that.


First, the things that make me want a cigarette are listed above. If we are not engaged in one of those activities, we're probably good.


Second, Quitter is ALREADY thinking about smoking all the time. So talking about it is actually a release, not a stressor.


4. Do not ask me to come out and keep you company while you have a smoke, or ask if its okay if you have a smoke around me, or apologize for smoking around me.


Its my choice to not smoke and I won't impose it on you. But here's where my head is at: I can't smoke. It sucks. You can. I am jealous. I will get over it.



I'm just gonna hang here inside where I can get over it without being grumpy.


5. Be my cheerleader.

I love a high-five. I love it when you order me a ginger ale on the rocks and toast my success. I love it when you say "I am so proud of you." I love it when you give me a hug and tell me I'm going to make it. I love it when you post on my blog telling me you believe in me, or text me that you're thinking of me, or email me to say you understand.


This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I need lots of cheerleaders.


And I need them well past the first few days. When Quitter first announces that she has quit, everyone is so excited! There are seemingly endless rounds of Good-for-You's and You-Can-Do-It's!


Then they end. Quitter seems okay. You kind of forget about it. Life just moves on.



Totally understandable. But here's something you may not know: Quitting gives Quitter a high at first. Quitter is enthusiastic! Quitter is on board! Quitter is ready for the challenge!


Then, life moves on. Real life happens. Stress happens and laundry and to do lists and jobs and the high wears off and then Quitter is just slogging through life -- without smokes.


Quitter needs you most around weeks 2 and 3, when the excitement has worn off and then its just a life without something Quitter liked.



6. Tell me I'm pretty.

Because I feel like a jiggly sack of lard. Holy fried food, batman, can I just tell you what I ate yesterday?



I ate a Starbucks egg sandwich, two cookies that were lying around unattended in the teacher's lounge, a baked potato the size of my forearm with butter, cheese, sour cream, and BACON; half a serving platter of chicken Parmesan and a cheesecake.



The day before I ate a Dunkin Donuts egg sandwich, three chocolate donut holes, at least a dozen potato chips with onion dip, a chicken sandwich from Starbucks, two slices of pizza, two double-chocolate-chunk cookies and a mini-Hershey's bar leftover from my Christmas stocking.


I do not feel pretty. I feel like I am willing to eat anything not nailed down to a solid surface.



This is not entirely an oral fixation thing. Its just that without beer and cigarettes, I'm running out of things to look forward to and indulge in and food has become something fun to do in place of my vices.



So I feel fat. And taking on dieting right now is just not an option. I'm running. That's enough.



But it helps when someone says I look nice, or healthy or that I'm glowing (someone at work told me that last week, and I'm still riding that high). Compliments reduce my stress and boost my confidence, and those are things I can really use right now.

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I hope this was helpful. Or entertaining. Or both.

Thanks to everyone reading and cheering me on. You are definitely helping this Quitter.

Day 7: The Present. Its In Right Now.

Today, I have made it one week without a cigarette or a beer, and I have run 8.5 miles.

Hell yeah.

(By the way, is it weird that you're reading this while Cesar Milan seduces you with his eyes? Because its kind of weird for me, but that awkwardness just makes me even happier with my photo selection.)

Let me tell you, this is not the first little celebration I have indulged in over the last week. I am proud of myself every damn day for what I'm accomplishing, and I've been treating myself to whatever the hell I want as a reward.

Most self-help literature suggests saving the money you would have spent on smokes (or beer) and buying yourself something you really want after X amount of time.

Eff that. I'm spending that cash now.

Why? Because I don't know what will happen next week, but I know I made it through today.

I'm living in the present. And I learned this from a man who changed my life. Who moved me near to tears. Who brought me to the light...

Cesar Milan.

Yes, laugh all you want, reader, because I just said it and I'm not afraid of saying it again: The Dog Whisperer changed my life.

I don't know if you noticed -- Mike and I sure as hell did, for like eight consecutive hours -- but there was a Dog Whisperer marathon on Animal Planet or TLC or whatever over the holidays. As we now have a dog, this show has suddenly become meaningful and relevant, albeit mostly because we like to talk smack about the crappy dog owners and pat ourselves on the back for not sucking like them.

This one particular episode features an overweight, super-dramatic,woman in her early 40's who lives with her mother -- let's call her Pathetic.

Oh! Wait! Sorry. I meant Patricia. I have no idea what came over me...

Patricia owns a small, yappy, black dog of unknown breed named Dimples (or something equally demoralizing).

Dimples is making it difficult for Patricia to have men over (frankly, I think Dimples is the least of her problems in the romance department, but that's neither here nor there) because Dimples barks at and attacks any man who tries to sit on the bed like he is wearing a mask and carrying a weapon.

Wait a second...

Okay, Patricia's possible kinky bedroom penchants aside, the dog is snapping at men and Patsy's mom.

Cesar to the rescue! He shows up at this woman's house, and meets with Patricia and her mother. The conference before Cesear starts working with the dog, is unbelievable. Mother and daughter do not stop talking for 15 minutes straight, and they are like:

Patty: "Well, if you would just pay attention to the dog, maybe Dimples wouldn't chew your bathrobe into, like, 100 small washclothes."

Mom: "Well, I would pet the dog if it just didn't smell so funny."

Patty: [Sniffles. Reaches for Kleenex.] "You always find the negative in everything I love! Its just like that time I brought Ronald home and you said his ski mask was disconcerting!"

Mom: "I just think its inappropriate for young ladies to be hanging around with convicts..."

Patty: [Sobbing] "I'M NOT A CHILD ANYMORE! GOD! I HATE YOU!"

You get the idea.

Poor Cesar is just sitting there: looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking exactly like a man caught in the middle of some Momma-Daughtah drama: Shocked. Entralled. Cannot pull away from the two trains as they careen closer and closer...

I feel so sorry for him at this moment.

Afterwards, he is interviewed privately and looks like he is still processing the Incredibly Inapproprate Airing of Dirty Laundry. His eyes are completely glazed over and wide as frisbees, and he says something to the effect of:

"I think the dog might be affected by the negative energy in the house."

Ya think? Gee. I was thinking he might just need a change in kibble.

So, Cesar teaches her how to act in a calm, authoritative manner and after only two attempts, Cesar is able to sit on the bed next to Patsy Poo without Dimples going for his good stuff.

Patsy the Pessimist won't shut up about how "Dimples would never do that before" and "Well, Dimples will clearly go right back to attacking my man meat the second you leave the house."

And Cesar says "You need to live in the present. When you live in the past, you expect the past, and you repeat the past. When you live in the present, you enjoy the moments that are good, and you make a step towards future good moments."

::DING::

That is the sound of my internal light bulb going off.

You see, last year had some ups, but it had its share of downs. More downs than usual. I'd go into detail, but the downs are not all about me, so they are not my stories to share. Please just know that it wasn't the easiest year, and that I kind of poured myself a swimming pool of pity and wallowed around in it for the better part of the summer and fall.

When Cesear spoke of living in the present, I realized I had been living in the past. I had been postponing taking care of myself, because I felt I deserved drinks and smokes. I felt I was entitled to them, because life wasn't fair to me.

In hindsight:

Well no effing shit, life ain't fair. Get the hell over it, self.

So on December 31st, I decided to put on my big girl panties, pull my shit together, and move forward by living in the present.

And here we are: Day #7 of living for right this minute. Today I rewarded myself for running 3.5 miles and making it through a Friday without a drink or smoke. I got a pedicure with Sara (aka: Blog Supporter Extrordiaire) and I'm going to have guacamole for dinner. Just guacamole.

I don't know what will happen tomorrow, and I don't care about what happened yesterday. Today, I was successful.

And that's worthy of celebrating.

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Post Script:

It occurs to me that you may now be invested in the complex saga of Patsy and Dimples, and that I ought to provide you with the riveting conclusion.

Okay, so Cesar leaves Patsy with strategies for dealing with Dimples the Dick-Hater, and promises to return in a month to check on their progress.

He returns only to find Patsy an even hotter hot mess than when he left her.

Patsy: "Well, I tried your techniques, but they didn't work."

[Read: I kind of tried your techniques, but I am lazy.]

Cesar: [Starting to glaze over again (I think this must be a self-preservation strategy).]

Patsy: "She keeps biting people, so I'm going to either have to put her down..."

Cesear: [Suddenly alert! Alarmed! Eyes like frisbees, again, but now intense! Focused. Shocked!]

Patsy:"... or, I don't know... have you heard of this procedure where they remove the dog's canine teeth?"

Cesar: "Why don't I take your dog?"

Oh praise jesus, because this woman should not own plants, let alone a dog.

Ultimately, the Patsy the Plump forks over Dimples, who is taken to Cesar's rehabilitation center and was completely rehabilitated -- the minute she was taken from Patty's home.

Shocker.

Dimples was adopted and renamed something less terrible by a family who loves her and none of whom own ski masks.

Fin!

Day 6: Flashback Friday!

So this blog will have a **NEW FEATURE** called "Flashback Friday" in which I reminisce about something incredibly stoopid I did when I was smoking and drinking like a world champion. Ideally, I will recall said stupidity, feel something akin to disgust over my ridiculousness, and feel renewed in my commitment to quit smokes and drinks.

Right before the weekend when all I want to do is chain smoke while sucking down beers.

This week's memory takes us back to a time and a land far, far away -- back when I lived in Cambridge, MA and drove 35 minutes each way to Salem, NH to teach. (If you can believe this: That commute was actually better than the 50 minutes each way I drove when I lived in Dover, NH and commuted to Salem. This is why New England is weird. All those little states...)

Okay, so every morning I would wake up every morning at 5:15 am, make myself a pot of coffee, get dressed and watch the news, and drive to work while listening to NPR.

**** If you are my mother, you can stop there. That is all I did. There is no more to this post.****

The above is horseshit, but significantly less embarrassing than the truth:

Every morning, I would wake up late as shit -- thereby eliminating time to make coffee -- wear whatever was not on my floor, throw my wet hair in a pony tail while trying to remember where-in- the-name-of-all-that-is-holy I parked my car last night, haul-ass to the Dunkin Donuts drive through, get a coffee, and smoke three cigarettes on my way to work.

"Dunkin Donuts!" you cry! "Not Starbucks?!? You are a Starbucks loyalist!"

Um, only because the Dunkin Donuts ice coffee down here is inexplicably horrible. In New England it is made of Unicorn Milk and the Dust of Sacred Fairy Burial Grounds.

Anyway, on the way home, I would repeat the morning procedure -- except by then my hair would be dry.

Let's examine what I've just told you for a moment, shall we? I just said I purchased not one, but two Dunkin Donuts Medium Iced coffees with cream and sugar every day for 180 days (give or take the occasional sick/snow/fiercely-hungover-and-dry-heaving day) and smoked SIX cigarettes in the car alone.

I then got home, got on the phone and smoked another half a pack.

But let's just run the numbers on the commute alone: That's six cigarettes x 180 days = 1080 cigarettes. That's 54 packs of cigarettes at about $4.00 a pack.

PLUS the two iced coffees at approximately $2.50 apiece.

$900 on coffee. Nine. Hundred. Dollars.

Oh, and $216 on smokes. Just on the commute.

Allow me to serve these numbers up with a side of perspective: That total was about 10% of my bi-weekly take home.

Appalling.

But that's not even the story, folks! This is:

One morning I am running Especially Late. "Especially Late" means I will arrive to school and school will have started without me. "Especially Late" means I am drying my hair by smoking an extra cigarette and rolling down the windows more than usual.

"Especially Late" does NOT, however, mean skip the iced-coffee. Ooooh nooo. I got my iced-coffee.

Then I got on the highway.

Then I realized I was out of smokes.

Panic. Panicpanicpanicpanic. What to do? What to do...

You, sensible person, are wondering what the panic is all about. Legitimate pondering. You, sensible person, are clearly not addicted to cigarettes. You, also, would never do what I did:

I got off the highway and got the smokes. Yes, even though it would make me an additional 15 minutes late -- I thought it was worth it.

But how to explain the lateness? One cannot stroll into work a full 30 minutes late without some kind of excuse.

And I hear "I ran out of smokes" does not exactly suggest professionalism.

So I called school and told them I got pulled over.

Yeah! Because that's better.

W.T.F. ??

Yes, I said I got pulled over for speeding and that it made me late, and the receptionist chuckled and said she'd find coverage for my class and I took a giant sigh of relief full of nicotine and smoke and felt much, much better.

Until I actually got pulled over.

Karma is real, bitches. Real.

But wait. It gets better:

I got pulled over in front of the school.

Oh yes I did, and you know who saw it all go down?

Oh, right, um, everyone.

Cover: Blown. Self: Humbled. Employment Status: Surprisingly, still solid.

I owned up to what happened, and everyone thought it was pretty funny, and felt my real speeding ticket was sufficient punishment for conjuring up an imaginary one.

That pack of smokes cost me $78.50 (plus the increase in my insurance premium, as I assure you, that was not my first dance with the po-po -- click here for details) but I learned a valuable lesson that day:

Telling the truth is infinitely cheeper than lying.

New Year. New blog. New idea.

Happy New Year friends and readers!

So, this year was a doozey, huh? A little like a kick in the shin, right? Yeah. I feel you.

I don't know about you, but by December I feel like I'm living in a sea of my dirty laundry. I look around and I see a mess all the half-fulfilled promises made to myself in hasty champange-induced excitement. I see all the crap I mucked up and shoved under the bed to cohabitate with the dust bunnies and other forgotten aspirations. I see the stinking, worn out parts of me that are ready for a fresh start.

So fresh start it is!

I'm kicking my bad habits, folks, and because I love those habits sooo sooo sooo much, I'm going to write about how I handle ditching them for thirty days in an effort to bleach the laundry of my life.

Yes, folks, I'm going to:

1. Quit smoking.
You should know this is hard for me. Mainly because I think cigarettes are awesome. No really. I love them. They are the fruit of the gods. However, this happened:

I was driving around, doing errands, one afternoon, and I notice a girl in a green sedan a lane over. She's cute! Probably my age or a little younger. Great sunglasses. Nice hair. Adorable! I think to myself. Except that she's smoking a cigarette. God. How trashy, I think.

Then I look at my left hand.

Just call me Beth McHipocrite.

Additionally, I find the califlower-cigarette-butt-bloom my husband and I regularly create in the dish on our deck alarming. I also find it alarming that I purchased a ceramic chicken sugarbowl to use as an ashtray in an attempt to somehow mask/ignore/feel better about/class up my smoking habit.

However, it is funny when we put out a butt in the chicken butt. Ha.

2. Quit drinking.
I love drinking beer. I love it love it. Just ask the muffin that sits atop my pants. We both love beer. I love drinking beer almost as much as I love smoking cigarettes. You want to know what I love more than beer or cigarettes?

Beer AND cigarettes!

Which is why I am quitting both.

3. Start running again.
I used to run a lot. I "ran" a half marathon once (to best understand why "run" is in quotation marks, please click here). But in the last year, I have run none.

Wait! Not true! I made beer runs! I made 7-11 runs!

Not the same? Damn.

Well, I'm getting back on the bandwagon, and running three days a week.

Want to run the Monument 10k with me?

For the next thrity days, I'll periodically (no, not everyday) blog about how this is going. Its a lot to give up, a lot to get used to, and a lot to talk about.

I don't know what this blog will look like, because I think this blog-theme is a bit more personal. "Personal" doesn't have to mean "less funny" but it might mean "slightly different." I hope you'll stick around for the ride.

Wish me luck and pray for Mike, who must live with me during the next 30 days.