I quit smoking 1 year, 10 months, and 16 days ago. Quitnet.com (which shares the credit, along with my awesome willpower, for helping me quit at all) tells me that it’s been 686 days, 15 hours, 6 minutes and 29 seconds.
(Jason sometimes tells me that it’s a bad thing that I know how long it’s been since I quit–that if I was “really” over cigarettes, I wouldn’t still count. I haven’t had a single puff of a cigarette since the day I quit. Jason has never been a smoker, an admirable–if highly annoying–trait; he can’t get that I *need* to remember how long it’s been. Some of you will understand.)
I walked out of the laundromat a couple minutes ago to go to the 7-11 next door to it, and someone was standing on the sidewalk, smoking, and that combination of smells–early winter, with the cold air that has that kind of clean, tangy feel to it, and the dryer-sheet smell of the laundromat, and the cigarette–but holy frijole, did I want a cigarette more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
Just for a second. I took a deep breath, and inhaled that whole thing: the cigarette smoke, the beginning of winter, clean clothes, the memories of late night after hours kissing smoke-and-whiskey-tasting friends, the feeling of smoking near the open window in the middle of January…and I missed it. All. Really, really badly; for about two seconds, I missed every cigarette I’ve ever had.
And then I got the hell over it.