Today marks one month on the patch and one month smoke-free. I celebrated by working out for the first time in months, and by working out, I mean doing a surprisingly grueling six minute phone app circuit under the supervision of my cat, who was, of course, staring me dead in the eye and licking her butthole the entire time. Which I took as a sort of encouragement to cleanse myself of former bad habits. I can do this! I thought to myself, her metered slurps like a chant propelling me onward. Kate! Kate! Kate! Kate! Emboldened, I obeyed the robotic voice emanating from my phone, my scalp beading with sweat, which is the only place I sweat most of the time, so even in comfort, I look like it's raining. I jumping-jacked, I squat-jumped, I crunched. I gritted my teeth and worked the fuck out. The minutes went by like kidney stones through a urethra, and I thought, well, this sucks. I'd rather chew off my own foot and then legally marry it than do this again. And then timer rang. My six minutes was up. I heaved myself out of the push-up position and then strutted over to the mirror. You look the same, but damp and sad. Hell yeah. Day One in the books.
I’ve hit this milestone many a time before, a month without cigarettes and the first day of exercise. I have yet to truly succeed, but I gotta keep doin' the damn thing. My lungs feel amazing, I can walk up stairs without bleeding too much from my eyes, and I’m dedicated to toning up my post-smoking-so-metabolism-slowing physique reminiscent of a hair tie secured around an overstuffed pillow or the painted Roman gentry after a bender of mutton. At some point, enough is enough, you know? Plus, I paid a lot for these gym shoes, so if the fitness thing doesn’t work out, I’ll just buy a twelve-pack of crew socks and surrender myself to Dad Fashion, which doesn't sound so bad, to be honest. Although I'll need to develop a taste for Rolling Rock. And I don't know if Tommy Bahama comes in my size. One can only hope.