Week 2 (or: Never thought I'd say that)

So starts Week 2. I have to confess that a week ago, I didn't know if I'd be able to say this or not. I've done this quitting thing before after all. So what's different this time? First -- and probably the biggest factor -- is all of the support I've gotten from people I know both in the real and cyber worlds. It's amazing in a way, but expected in another. Second, the motivation is different this time. I'm making this attempt because it's time to quit and that's it. Other times I've tried to use external factors, not as motivators, but as motives. And maybe that works for some people. Maybe other people can "do it for my girlfriend/wife/mother/kids" and that's what gets them through it. I'm not one of those people. My motive has to be selfish. I have to do it for me, and that may be one of the reasons I've never been able to do it successfully before. Well this time I'm just going to damn well be selfish. Somehow I don't think people will mind.

The only other time I've made it this long was under duress. I spent three years of a past life in the army, and basic training provided me the perfect opportunity to quit back in 1983. Five weeks of cold turkey, with plenty of *ahem* activities to keep my mind occupied. All of us knew that we'd just been handed a head start on a platter, so why is it that none of us managed to quit? I think the answer is that for those first five weeks we weren't allowed to do anything without a direct order (makes me wonder how I survived it), so the minute we were able to do anything of our own volition, we did it. No matter what it was. Or how destructive.

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The converse of that is also true. Yesterday I asked our resident expert JC about the running program she used to get started. Some of you may know she used this same program to help a friend tackle her first 5K recently. (If you're interested, the program is detailed in the "Couch to 5K" section at http://coolrunning.com.) And that conversation started me thinking about something else the army might have provided for me if they hadn't done it by force.

See, if there's anything the army loves to do, it's run. During those long-ago basic training days, if you went anywhere alone or at least not in a formation, you did it at double-time. Or else. Later, the regular PT included anywhere from 2 to 6 or more miles of road work at least three times a week.

When you're in the army, you run. A lot.

There are a number of things wrong with this. And it's possible that they're related. First of all -- at least in the units I was in -- they don't bother to teach you how to run right. There's no training involved, you just lace up your sneakers and left-right-left at double-time. If you learn anything about technique it's an accident. And I've come to learn from other people that it's really not as simple as "just do it".

Second, a lot of the running you do is in a formation -- usually platoon sized, in four ranks of maybe 10 people. And the person in the front right corner of that formation is the one setting the pace. There's no particular qualification for that position, it's just the guy or girl who happens to be at the head of the rightmost line. Those are not fun runs. On the worst days I got through them by picking a spot on the back of the guy's head in front of me and blocking out everything else until we dropped back to a walking pace.

Third, most running in the army takes the form of the "Airborne Shuffle" which basically means scuffing along without ever really reaching full extension of your legs. A couple of miles of this and your shins are questioning your ancestry. Three miles and you're beginning to question it yourself. Any more of that and you're questioning the relative merits of homicide.

And finally, you run because you're told to run. You don't get to choose, you don't get a vote in the process. If you're medically able to pick 'em up and put 'em down, you run dammit. So it's hardly a wonder that the day I could quit (September 18, 1986) I quit. And I haven't run a step since (unless somebody was chasing me).

That's too bad, really, because over the last year or so of my enlistment my unit had a new C.O. who was a big proponent of running. Because of that, we were actually allowed to run in smaller groups -- or even break out individually. This was a whole different experience, a whole different kind of run. And I learned that if I could use the first quarter mile or so to get my lungs synchronized with my legs, and ease my legs into the rhythm of things I would get too bored to go on long before I got too tired. And predictably, my times improved dramatically in the 2-mile event that was part of the periodic test we had to take. I never quite broke the 12 minute barrier for 2 miles, but I came damn close. And on at least one occasion I can remember taking the second mile a full two minutes faster than the first.

If I'd had a choice in the matter, maybe I'd be writing this blog about the latest 10K or half marathon I'd run. Or the full marathon I was training for. Or maybe my knees would have given out even sooner than they did and I'd only have the Ghosts of Marathons Past to write about. If I'd been able to choose it, running might have been my friend and companion instead of the jock asshole I was always trying to avoid talking to.

The difference is all in the motives.Stumble This!

T + 165 hours

The one-week mark approacheth
Of course by the time I'm finished writing, editing, all that stuff and finally get around to actually posting it the one-week barrier may have been breached already.

A week. Just saying it, it doesn't sound like much. There are 52 of them in a year, it's not like they're rare or anything. Hell, we have weeks lying around all over the calendar. There's a week everywhere you look these days. We toss them around like confetti. Seven puny days. One hundred, sixty-eight hours. A week.

But... when I had to go to the local Doc-in-the-Box this morning for a bit of unscheduled (and unrelated, so relax) maintenance and the nurse filling in the "new patient history" asked the question "Do you smoke?" I could honestly answer "No, I just quit."
"How long since you quit?"

"A week."

A week. Okay, so I fudged a little -- but she didn't know, and I wanted to get used to the sound of it. And a few other interesting factoids surfaced too. Systolic pressure down by 8 points. Pulse rate (at rest): 64 (down from the typical 72-77). And this is after only (wait for it...) a week.

I may add to this later. But for a while at least, I'm just going to let myself get used to the thought.

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T+157 Hours

Into the Sixth Day
The Mighty Tiff and I had a discussion (actually I "discussed" as she became the latest victim of my nicorosis, more commonly known as the "withdrawal-induced I'm-talking-and-I-can't-shut-up syndrome") about the motivations for quitting smoking and more important the motivations for staying quit. She pointed out that the cost savings alone might be enough for a few gallons of gas. And after spending $81 to fill my truck up shortly after this conversation, I'm convinced she might be right. But I'd already done some rough calculations of just how much I've spent supporting local agriculture over the years. And the results went something like this:
The cost savings alone, adjusted for inflation over the last 33 years, I've estimated would allow me to take at least a year off with pay. Then there's the savings on hotel rooms and rental cars (when you don't have to pay the extra cleaning fees or pay extra for the "smoking option"). And lets not even get into the advantages of not having air marshalls eyeballing you the whole trip on long flights because the nic-fits have you twitching like a ... twitching... guy. Or not missing the asshole from accounting getting so plowed he does a two-and-a-half with a full twist into the punchbowl at the office Christmas party because *you* were outside having a smoke when you could've been getting the $10,000 footage for America's Funniest Videos.

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I'm slowly and steadily getting to the point now where the anxiety, the excess energy and the naked craving is almost tolerable. (The Ricola's have turned out to be pretty effective -- actually much more than I thought they'd be. In case any cessation fence-sitters are looking for suggestions.) But every now and then, something happens that brings the agitation roaring back like a stock car making a perfect exit from Turn 4. Today that something took the form of an accidental fire alarm. We occasionally have fire drills in our building, usually preceded in the morning by an agency-wide email saying "We have a fire drill scheduled for today". (I truly wonder sometimes.) Today however, the alarm was triggered by the guys repairing one of the building's two elevators. Like good little employees, we trooped out of the building to our appointed assembly areas, stood around for about five minutes and then were told "It was a false alarm, come on back in." Disappointed that we wouldn't have the customary half-hour break in the routine -- especially since today was some of the nicer weather we've had lately -- we returned to our normal duty stations.

There was only one small problem.

The fire alarm was still blaring.

I'm not kidding. They expected us to get back to our business and simply ignore the klaxon going off over our heads. This alarm apparently must be disengaged by the fire department once it is triggered. And the fire department hadn't arrived yet.

I was not amused.

And as three minutes ticked by I became less amused. At the five minute mark, I found myself rocking back and forth in my chair, eyes beginning to glaze. At eight minutes I told my supervisor in as calm a voice as I could manage, "Rick, I'm going outside for the safety of my co-workers." (Fortunately, my supervisor is cool that way.)

The alarm eventually shut up, but the rest of my day was pretty well shot after that. It took two packages of Lance Grilled Cheese on Captain's Wafers and another bag of Limited Edition M&Ms to bring me back to Low Earth Orbit.

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So as I trek toward that magical 7th Day mark (6:00pm this evening people, mark your calendars) I leave you with this question. Why is it that when I talk dirty to a woman it's considered harrassment, but when a woman talks dirty to me it costs $2.99 a minute?

I'm out. Peace!Stumble This!

T+111 Hours (or: Mickey Has To Do Math Now)

Calculating the running total of smokeless hours now requires using the skill of adding short columns of small numbers. Up through about 72 hours, most of us can do the conversion from memory without having to consult our second-grade columnar addition lessons. After that it gets a little trickier. But a few ticks on the fingers gives me 96+12+3.5=... 111.5 hours. So, in the interest of scientific method, here are a few observations. Maybe someone reading this is considering quitting. If so, maybe knowing what could be coming will help you prepare -- and deal.

The urges are still there. And they're still strong. Sometimes wicked strong. And more times than one I've been tempted to "just have one, just to take the edge off". Some people might be able to do that and get away with it. I'm not one of those people. "Moderation" is not something I'm good at, and it's been the "one to take the edge off" that's foiled all my other attempts in the past.

Behind the mask of withdrawal symptoms that make it seem like I'm not feeling any better, I can see evidence that I'm actually getting better. (And no, the two things are not interchangeable.) Exhibit A supporting this thesis is my first-thing-in-the-morning pseudo-walks with Tonka. I've noticed that the time I spend waiting for him to select just the right spot to pee no longer involves hacking up lungfuls of brown, gelatinous gaack to be spewed forth onto the lawn. This, I have to admit, is a positive side-effect.

Exhibit B is an increase in energy. But whether that increase is permanent or simply brought on by withdrawal is yet to be determined. I suspect that some of it may be permanent, but I'd really like to be able to harness the part that's making me unable to sit still. That, I'm pretty sure is a withdrawal symptom. And permanent or not, the excess in "nervous energy" is having some effects that aren't necessarily positive. It seems to have pushed all of my usual "drives" into "overdrive", and some of those I didn't really need to have cranked up.

I now know that all those reformed smokers were telling the truth about being sensitive to the smell of smoke. I can smell a burning cigarette a block away now. And I'm trying -- so far successfully -- not to be one of those hyper-militant assholes that used to get on my nerves so much. But I think I understand those people better now. Because to a recovering tobaccoholic, that smell is the perfume of the gods. And it triggers a lust unrivaled by any in my experience, save one.

New Trick: I'm trying something new today, just to see if it helps. Ricola Natural Herb Cough Drops (available at fine retailers everywhere). The idea here is to placate the oral fixation formerly satisfied by cigarettes. I picked these for a number of reasons, but mainly because it's damn near impossible to chew the things up. So they last a really long time. Certainly longer that the nearly full bag of Sun Chips I plowed through while watching Jeff Dunham's Spark of Insanity DVD yesterday. Ricola doesn't say how many calories are in one of those little pieces of herbal gravel, but I'm guessing it can't be so many that my clothes won't fit later. And, dude, they're all natural!

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That's all I got for now -- Payce, I'm out!Stumble This!

T + 45 hours (or: Breathe... breathe... that's better)

The 36-hour barrier came with the ringing of the alarm clock this morning. That's one more proof of the law of unintended consequences I guess. And a handy one at that. I get to rouse myself every morning on an even-word boundary (don't ask).

Another unintended consequence -- and an unfortunate one -- is that I'm starting to realize that this withdrawal thing is making me a bit more *ahem* "talkative" than usual. Which is enough to strike fear in the hearts of some, and stir wonder in the souls of most. Because I have never been accused of reticence by anyone who knows me.

A lot of people, both ones I know and ones I don't, have been of irreplaceable assistance during this quest. But two of them deserve some special props. Maybe even medals (the Order of the Purple Ear maybe?). At the very least trophies should be awarded here.

One of the most heavily afflicted by my recent abuse of excess energy has been my awesome friend JC who has been -- by my best guesstimate -- subjected to somewhere between 2500 and 5000 words worth of me keeping my hands busy over the last two days. And she's done it without a single complaint, without even a single hard word. 'Cuz she's just a rockstar that way.

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Another victim of my verbal hemorrhaging is my way-cool, uber-wonderful new umfriend Debi. She's been on the receiving end of (probably) an even greater volume of verbosity than JC (the heart quails, does it not?). But she gives as good as she gets, and that's just fine with me. (Stop. I mean it.) I'm not sure how much I should go into it 'cuz I sure don't want to jinx it. But have you ever known somebody with whom the first time you met turned into one of those omigod-its-four-hours-later conversations? Yeah, it's like that.

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The Mighty Tiff has described the smoke hanging over much of North Carolina as barbecue-scented. In her latest post she gave a hunger-inducing description of this smoke complete with a vivid word-picture of meat sizzling over a charcoal flame complete with enough sound and visual effects to make me seriously contemplate an early dash to the Quizno's down the street. It was a verbally Epicurean temptation the like of which is rarely seen. My comparison of the smoke smell (and choice of likeness) is very different as I described yesterday around this time. Fortunately for those of us in the RDU area, the wind picked up last night and shoved all that stuff further west. The Triad is getting today what we had yesterday. And the really good news is that this combustion-induced overcast has cooled things off by a good 10 or 15 degrees (it's down to 90).

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We might want to get used to this kind of thing though. I've just started Fareed Zakaria's book The Post-American World in which he says that over the next dozen years or so China and India will build about 800 new power plants, most of which will be coal-fired. I forget now how much he said that would multiply CO2 emissions, but it was substantial. I'm only through a couple of chapters, but there are some other interesting -- if counterintuitive -- ideas posited in the book as well. It promises to be a thought-provoking read.

I like those.

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In other news (from the same Amazon order), the Biloxi-area based 3 Doors Down recently released their self-titled fourth studio album.
I'm thinking of recommending they change their name to "Nickelback South" after this offering. Meaning that if you like Nickelback (I do), you'll probably like this album (I did). And if you don't like Nickelback, you probably won't. Which is a (to use one of Tiff's Lovely Wordporn words) circumlocutory way to say "they sound just like Nickelback on this album".

Really. They do. It's spooky.

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Whether yesterday's pseudo-smog was actually BBQ-scented or not, thinking about Tiff's comparison coupled with not having a cigarette to calm my oral fixation finally just drove me to the Quizno's down the block from where I work. I think I may have awakened a sleeping monster. Their prime-rib cheesesteak is some good! Normally I'm not a big fan of prime rib. But sliced thin, and toasted with some onions and fake Swiss cheese on a whole wheat hoagie roll... I could be converted. Throw in a bag of jalapeno flavored chips and a bottle of that Lipton Citrus Green Tea with far too much high fructose corn syrup in it and you got some pretty good eats. I picked up a bag of the Keebler Cracker Crisps (herb & parmesan!) to save for later, but now the pump is primed and I'm going to have to eat them. Oh well, at least now I have some change for the vending machine. If this keeps up I'm going to blimp out before I'm nicotine free. But it's okay, I can lose the extra weight if I'm alive to do it.

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That's it, I'm out. Watch this space...Stumble This!

Day... 2!

Yes, folks, as of 6:00 pm (a mere 2 minutes ago) I have officially crossed the 24-hour barrier. Another fresh adhesive-backed plastic patch is in place, which reminds me of what I didn't like about those things from last time. (They burn a bit when you first apply them.) It is only 24 little hours behind me, but I can't adequately describe the relief of making it through the first day. Theoretically, they get easier from this point. Right? (right?)

So I have to stop, take a moment and thank all of those people who've helped me get to this point. JC, you are awesome girl. I have no words (note the date folks, it doesn't happen often). Debi, I would not have made it through the first half of this without you. And in no particular order (except the order I happened to cut and paste: db grin, Wordnerd, kenju, Roo, justrun, tracy_lynn, tiff, and mamie... thanks for stopping by (or sending a proxy) and reminding me that yeah, I can pull this off. I have to remember to acknowledge this because (a) I really wasn't expecting it and isn't it always nice to get something you're not execting? and (b) more important I need to keep reminding myself that while it's my issue to deal with, it is one helluva lot easier when you have the support of others.Stumble This!

Day 1: (Roughly) T+15 :45

It's a start...

Before I say anything else, I have to express my utter amazement and profound gratitude to the people who have given their encouragement and support in this little adventure of mine. And thanks in advance to any that might join them before it's done. I expected quitting to be hard. I've tried it enough times to know. And I figured I'd get some help from friends or family in the way of support (that or a straitjacket). What I didn't see coming was the number of people who turned up on these pages.

Some of you I know from the blogosphere, one of you from the meat-o-sphere, and some of you I've never actually met at all -- live or via satellite. But special shout out to my friend JC who not only lent her own voice to the cause, but recruited a host of others with a post on her own blog. Not only did she bring the cavalry, she may have doubled my readership (maybe more!).

Big Wins
Puck drop for this event was at roughly 6:00 pm EDT yesterday. The first 10 hours or so went pretty easily thanks to a new supply of those clear patches and being in a situation where smoking was really not an option. The next couple of hours were a little bit tougher, but manageable because I was driving home from Greensboro, had no cigarettes with me and ... it was between 4:00 and 5:00 am, so the options for getting any were a little more limited.

My first major victory came at about 7:00 this morning. Maybe you won't get it, but the victory was that the flip-top box wasn't the second thing I grabbed (after the alarm button on my clock). Maybe that doesn't seem big, but to me it's like winning the Battle of the Ardennes. That was always a weak point, and always caught me with my guard down (because after all, I wasn't fully awake yet). So the fact that it happened at all is a win. The fact that I'd only gotten about 90 minutes sleep made it a big win.

Little Wins: The Law of Unintended Consequences
It's funny the things you notice. I hear a lot of people say they notice smells -- especially the smell of smoke. Well somewhere in the state there's a wildfire burning as I speak, and the smoke has created a haze over Our Fair City that smells something like burning electrical insulation or overcooked disc brake pads. (These two smells are remarkably similar, as I found out during a trip to the mountains a couple of summers ago. I digress.) I probably would have noticed that in any case (it's not exactly subtle). But what I noticed that I found ... not odd really, but interesting was my pockets. Specifically that they didn't feel quite right because they were empty. Or at least devoid of the usual flip-top box.

It was an alien feeling. But it prompted another "unintended bonus" of quitting. If I pull this off, I no longer have to factor the presence or absence of a pocket into shirt-buying (or wearing) decisions. My collection of tour shirts might actually see the light of day this now (except for my Pat Benatar "Inamorata Tour '96" which doesn't fit so well now). This is big news people! Imagine the cred I could have showing up at the dog park with my Evanescence "The Open Door - 2007" jauntily displayed. (Probably about as much as I got at the actual show. If they'd held a contest for "Oldest Participant Not Acting As Chaperone For Bratty, Squealy Teenagers" I'd have aced the field.)

Another bonus: I'd often suspected that cigarettes had a role in me waking up every morning feeling like someone had stuffed cotton balls up both of my nostrils. Maybe that's actually so, maybe not. And maybe it's just the lack of Any Real Sleep last night that's responsible for the fact that this morning I woke up able to breathe through my nose. It's too soon to tell. (Do you suppose this might fix my snoring issue too? That would rule!)

And Finally
Forget "One day at a time". For now, it's "One hour at a time"... sometimes "One minute at a time". It's still hard, but it helps to know that once the actual physical withdrawal is over, I don't have to feel this way anymore. There will still be issues but they'll be manageable.

T+16:30... almost a full three quarters of a day, and still sane.Stumble This!

I'm Quitting. (And I Really Mean It This Time!)

I've uttered those two words more times than I can count in my long life. And I'm really good at it -- sometimes even in a beneficial way. I've left jobs that were sucking the life out of me. I dropped alcohol in my wake like a chum slick at the end of the last century without a backward glance. I've left relationships that were bad for my mental health. I did all of these things because what I was leaving behind was killing me -- either literally or metaphorically. Or both.

But I've never been able to exorcise the cigarette demon. I've come close mind you. I've focussed all the energy I could muster at the task. I've plastered patches, chewed gum, sucked on mints, burned incense and chanted, and just about everything else short of animal sacrifice. And I've learned something from every attempt.

What I learned is that quitting smoking is hard.

I mean, really, really hard. So hard that even a champion quitter like me hasn't managed it. I've prepared for each attempt with resolve, with research, even with chemical assistance. And every time I was sure that this time I would emerge victorious.

And every time I was wrong.

Discouraging? You bet. More than that, it pisses me off! But there is one thing I've never tried adding to my arsenal of weapons in my little battle with tobacco.

Friends. Allies. I've never wanted to subject anyone else to it. "It's my addiction, I have to own it. Nobody else can do this for me. I can't try to give responsibility for my quitting to anyone else." These are the principles that have made me successful in other Adventures in Quitting. They work.

But there are some things that are just too much to handle without support. Admitting that is like chewing on aluminum foil for me. It bothers me. Vexes me. Perturbs me. And a whole thesaurus worth of other words. For two reasons. First, because I don't want the vexation to spill over onto other people who don't deserve it. And second (and I'll let you in on a little secret: this is the real reason) because I perceive it as making me dependent on someone else for something I need.

Just putting that last bit in writing was harder than you can possibly imagine. In fact, I didn't know myself how hard it would be until I actually did it. And since I'm still writing this, it may yet not escape editing.

But that would defeat the purpose of this post. That purpose is to put my intent out there for all six people who actually read this blog to see. Not because I need them to hold me accountable, but because if they see it I'll hold myself accountable. Because the Six People Who Actually Read This Blog might actually care enough to be disappointed if I fail.

And there's nothing I can think of that I hate more than disappointing my friends.

So watch this space (not literally this space, don't be dense). I'll let you know how it's working out.

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