Sarah Santucci

It’s possible that I’ve quit smoking.

It’s been over a month since I’ve had one, and just about 2 months, I think, since I’ve smoked more than one or two. I can’t even remember, actually. So it’s possible that I’ve quit. As I wrote last year, the thought of quitting smoking seemed like some unbearable punishment. Mostly because, as everyone knows, smoking is awesome. (Remember kids, don’t smoke! Because it’s awesome, so you will never, ever be able to stop, and then you’ll end up accidentally essploding your oxygen tank, like happened in that one episode of that hospital show I saw that time, with the doctors who make out in supply rooms all up against the sterile equipment and stuff. Gross, doctors!)

My reasons for quitting can be boiled down thusly:

1) The awesomeness tax that has swept the nation has caused the price of a single pack of smokes to skyrocket to approximately $147. I could buy a ticket on Southwest for that, and go to Phoenix or something!

2) People hate awesomeness. They don’t let you smoke, anywhere. Not even at outdoor bars, where it is acceptable to smoke only if you get up out of your chair and take one large step to the left, to the other side of the invisible smoke forcefield.

3) My boyfriend made me.

Number three is highly problematic for a fire-breathing dragon-lady feminist like myself. It requires many rationalizations, such as:

1) Is smoking really worth fighting for as a feminist sticking point? Well, of course it is, if you really think about it, but on the surface: no.

2) I have a chit to cash in whenever I feel like it!

“I gave up smoking for you, and you can’t even shut the shower curtain after your shower? Well, I nevah!!!!”

3) I’m certainly not doing anything else that I started doing when I was 17. Do I have Leonardo DiCaprio pictures on my wall? Do I wear tie-dye shirts and Birkenstocks and flannel shirts every day? (What? It was the 90s!) Do I listen to Smashing Pumpkins albums on repeat, searching for hidden messages sent straight from Billy Corgan to my damaged teenage soul?

No, no, and BWAAHAHAHAH, no. So why am I still smoking?

Of course, now that I’ve written this blog I will no doubt set out to chain smoke at my earliest convenience, having irrevocably jinxed my chances of making this hiatus permanent. I’ll let you know.

From now on, I’m going to stop crowing about how I never get sick.

I honestly don’t usually get sick though! I mean, I get a couple colds and coughs and sniffles per year, just like most people. But I rarely get so sick that I need “to be seen” (as my mom puts it) and take medicines, and miss three days of work, and constantly have people telling me how awful I look.

The last time that happened was when I had mono when I was 23. Mono was terrible in the sense that I had to sleep sitting up in my dad’s easy chair for 3 weeks or risk death by snot suffocation, but wonderful in the sense that I ate nothing but ice cream and liquid painkillers for a month, and lost 25 pounds.

If you ask me, mono is a walk in the park next to bronchitis, because with mono you’re basically just passed out. Sure, when you wake up you’re in unbearable pain, and your spleen might explode, but guess what? A few spoonfuls of ice cream, a mugful of ThermaFlu and a swig of liquid painkillers later, and it’s back to Happy Dream Easy Weight Loss Land for the next 12 hours. What’s wrong with that?

Bronchitis is basically the opposite of mono in every way:

You’re still sick for a month, but in that month you will likely get about a half an hour of sleep.

Instead of your spleen exploding, which most people could probably live through, your lungs might explode, which would probably be bad.

You can’t eat ice cream due to the fact that dairy products exacerbate a cough, but you probably won’t lose 25 pounds without trying like with mono. At least not if you’re me. This is probably due to the lack of sleep and inability to do much more exercise than, well, coughing. And even that will kill you, as I learned that several week’s worth of violent coughs can mean strained muscles and an inflamed rib cage.

This means, on top of the steroids and the inhaler and the antiobiotics and liquid hydrocodone, I also got to take naproxen and percocet and muscle relaxers! This was not as much fun as it sounds.

Oh, and did I mention I was on vacation for part of this ordeal? In New Orleans? And that I was so tired from merely dragging myself out to sightsee each day that I couldn’t even bring myself to hit up Bourbon Street and party down properly? Yes. That is all true.

This entire post about my ailments is, naturally, meant to serve as a very viable excuse for not posting for two months.

“But I thought you said you were only sick for a month??”

Hush, you.