As the tow truck driver and I were gazing at my dead car by the side of the road in the dusky light of outback NSW, he pulled out his smokes and offered me one. I didn't have to be asked twice, such was the anxiety swirling around in my stomach.
When was that... last Wednesday? The one before. So, I've smoked for a week and a half.
Today was day 3 of quitting smoking. No use saying anything until after the first trimester, hey. I'd hate to stumble and trip on the bloody foetus of my giving up. I can hold my fingers up my cunt and across my mouth for that long, surely. I was a little scratchy on day one, let me tell you. I could have miscarried at any point. Angsty, yes that's what I would have called it. My mood could have spiralled out of control at any moment, but it didn't. I told Beck, after which she closed my office door and we didn't speak unless we had to, which wasn't much. Day two was easier.
It just makes me want to scream and throw my hands up in the air, you know. When am I going to be able to say 3 years of not smoking. When am I going to be able to say, Actually, I don't smoke, when someone offers me one? Still, I guess, it's better that I can say I have stopped than to have to say that I am still smoking.
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