There have been a lot of things that I've wanted to blog about lately, but I can't because I have a secret. It's a secret that I hate to have, and it's something I'm ashamed about, and it's something that makes me want to crawl in a hole and die.
So here it is: I started smoking again. And I don't want to hear a damn word about it (I'm hard enough on myself about it). Mkay?
I've quit on and off for ten years, and some stretches have been longer than others. Two months here, three weeks there. But in the end, I love smoking. It's not something I'm proud of, it's not something I ever want Tucker to do, and yes, I know it's something that will eventually kill me (smokers do know that, my friends. Please don't feel the need to remind them of that).
But it is what it is. The hope that I may someday be a non-smoker dwindles every time I give in to "just one" cigarette. That "just one" always turns into "just a pack" or "just for a week", and then I am REALLY quitting. And the week turns into ten years. I have been a smoker for ten years. That really is disgusting, I think.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, I'm going to wake up and be 50. And I'm either going to be a smoker, or I'm going to be able to tell my children how glad I am that I finally kicked the habit in my twenties (or thirties. Argh).
I love smoking, but I hate being a smoker.