Habit forming

Once, every four months or so, I rifle through my underwear drawer in search of an intoxicating, little, rectangular box that holds in it symbolic cylinders of rebellion. I pull one out, scan the room for some matches, and then find a place outside where I am all by myself before partaking in my secret indulgence.
Each puff makes my head spin and my shoulders sag in what can only be described as near-euphoria. I only take a handful of drags before smashing the end of the cigarette into the ground, and smothering the embers that glow on its tip.
Though it doesn't make sense, after I am done, I breath just a little bit easier. My chest loosens up and all is suddenly right with the world. And so begins the post-cigarette-procedure. I strip off my clothes and hop in the shower; washing my hair and shaving my legs, rinsing all evidence of sin from my skin. After the shower, I blow my nose and brush my teeth, then gargle with mouthwash. My clothes are then immediately taken to the washing machine, and life goes on as if nothing was any different. And, really, nothing is any different.
I could attribute this whole process to my disdain for the smell of stale smoke on clothes, especially on my own clothes, but, deep down, I think it's psychological.


Just Call Me Fabulous said...

Oh yes, the pull of a cigarette. The dream of secret indulgences just like yours is the only thing that keeps me thinking I could feasibly quit. If I thought I'd never have another cigarette again quitting would be out of the question.

Dunzo said...

Maybe you're paranoid. Try doing it everyday and you'll soon ditch all the frivolous cleansing.