You know it’s going to be a bad start to the day

10 Dec

….when someone sends you an actual film clip of you drunkenly bouncing (literally, bouncing) to Monkey Magic. Thank god the footage is that dark all one can see is the…um…bouncing.

Ha ha ha huh….how much will their silence cost?

In other news, I’m giving up smoking tomorrow. *sigh* Really, a deep sigh filled with longing and regret is all I can give. Oh, and tar. I am so sad to farewell the fuming muse. But it’s a needed thing. If the budget is to accommodate more than it currently does, I have to give up the smokes. And possibly cabs. But not the fat-free cheesecake yogurt. I pity the fool who comes between me and the fat-free cheesecake yogurt.

I’m inordinately in love with smoking. Though men and non-smokers alike may not understand this, other single women will: often the cigarette becomes your primary relationship. Always there to be fabulous in the good times and commiserate and comfort in the bad no matter what the time, circumstance or company. Ready for the stolen and silent moments of solitude and begrudgingly shared in the social. Fabulous with a cup of coffee or while languishing in a sudsy bath (shut up, I smoke in the bathtub and am unrepentant).

I still remember my first cigarette. It was the 70s and I was four years old. My mother taught me how to blow smoke through my nose. Heh, it was the 70s and we were on holiday. There was the odd sneaky smoke nicked from sisters and others before taking it up regularly at the age of 14. There’s something almost drunkenly euphoric about a teenage smoker. Each cig would bring a headspin and every one savoured. The quiet cig spent waiting for the tram, the smoke outside the shopping mall or the (not so) clandestine smoky gatherings in a paddock at school.

But, they’re too expensive financially and, though I don’t think about it, physically devastating. I’ve given up once before, while growing the Seagull and took it back up again when she turned one. I needed to recapture something irresponsible and fun from my past, to reclaim an image of myself long since surrendered. It’s timely that the re-imagining begins now.

Signs even your workmates think you’re a bitch: you forewarn them of withdrawal isshewes which may make you a tad snarly and brusque. Their response? “Oh, more than usual?”

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