In my previous post I now realise I was a trifle too negative in my cigarhetoric about having to cigaredit my cigaraddiction out of my cigawriting life.
Because so many people, cigareaders and non-cigareaders alike, and even those so extreme in their opposition to smoking that to them the very thought of it is outright cigaheretical, proved positively supportive or at least sympathetic in their cigaresponses.
A few, of course, expressed good cigariddance to what they perfectly accurately perceive as a habit that’s as filthy as its potentially fatal, but the majority of commenters proved to be kindness itself in expressing a range of reactions from feelings of total empathy to intentions to fall to their knees in prayer.
But as profoundly cigagrateful as I am for all of these signs of friendship, the one that I find most cigaresonates with me is a caution that signing-on for thoracic surgery at my age could be kind of cigareckless, and that thus I should consider letting sleeping dogs, or in this case lung lesions, lie.
Certainly I’d be lying if I didn’t see this suggestion as the chance of a win-win situation: no further need to dread undergoing a highly cigarisky operation, and thus a great cigarexcuse for cigaresuming smoking and simply hoping for the best, as previously.
On the cigacredit side of my continuing to quit smoking, at least until my complete cigarecovery from the proposed thoracic procedure, is that I find breathing somewhat easier.
Then there’s the far-from-insignificant cigareduction in the cigarexpense of my wife’s continued enjoyment of smoking tobacco whose price continually cigarescalates, even on the black market where I buy it.
Most cigarewarding of all, however, is that, perhaps for the first time in my adult life I’ve sufficient sense of smell to fully appreciate every olfactory delight from the deliciousness of my wife’s cooking to the scent of approaching Spring in the air.
And, just as soon as the bandicoot-repellent stench of Dynamic Lifter fertiliser disperses from the garden, this coming Spring should be especially redolent of the freshness of home-grown vegetables and the fragrances of flowers ranging from sweet peas to mexican-orange-tree blossoms.
Not to mention those two to me most compelling of all natural perfumes, the smell of rain on dry, dusty soil and the glorious aroma of new-mown grass.
And all of this the result of weeks of hard gardening by my wife, my daughter, her boyfriend and yours truly while we’ve been confined at home by COVID-19.
Of course, talk of gardening inevitably reminds me that, as least for a smoker, perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of this or any other form of hard manual labour is the taking of regular cigarest-breaks, traditionally known in the Aussie vernacular as “smokos”.
So I’m sure you can well imagine that, during my current short stint as a temporary or even terminal non-smoker, I’ve been finding my smoke-free smokos decidedly frustrating.
But hey, here I go getting all cigaregretful again when I’m supposed to be looking on the cigacredit side of quitting smoking. Which only goes to show, I suppose, that despite the positives I’ve mentioned, I’m thus far by no means committed to quitting.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Because at this very moment, all I can think of is how very much I’m looking forward to finding some plausible cigarexcuse to justify my burning desire to as soon as humanly possible quit quitting.