Tuesday, December 29, 2009
So, it's coming up for that time in the year where I'll soon feel compelled to quit smoking again. It's not a problem, it's easy.
I've done it loads of times.
'Course that still leaves my drinking, gambling, womanising, kleptomania, spousal abuse, costly phone-sex addiction, bulimia, and that nasty heroin habit to tackle, but hey, what the hell, reckon I might as well make a start somewhere, eh?
Oh relax, I'm joking. (Not about the ciggies though.)
It's a health issue, I'm dodging bullets I don't need to load. Trouble is, I LOVE smoking, it's a divine, guilty pleasure of mine. Save me the preaching, I am well aware of the down-side - it stinks, makes me ill, threatens the health of those around me, and literally burns a gaping hole in my pocket - you don't need to underline it, blimey, my very own da died of the lung cancer, I've seen first hand the horror it causes.
I've already got the tablets and a few of those emergency nicotine patches in. Come some point in January (depending on when my bulk supply runs out) I'll be forsaking my beloved addiction in search of healthier options.
According to my day-time TV Guru, Dr. Phil ('scuse me as I genuflect), I need to replace the habit with an alternative placebo, something to fill the void. Trouble is, I figure it should be with something enjoyable, and that's where my dear old friend, Dr. Phil, and I seem to lose common ground. See he suggests taking up exercise over chocolate. Don't get me wrong, actually, I am one of those rare women who doesn't happen to like chocolate, the texture of it melting on my tongue gives me nothing short of the screaming heebie-jebbies - ugh - so I have no quarrel at all with continuing to give the sweeties a body-swerve. (Yeah, you always knew I was weird, huh?) But exercise? Pul-eeze, let's get real here, do I look like a woman into masochism?
Face it, "Joy" and "work out" does not belong in the same sentence together.
Placing the endorphin rush and that smug feeling of virtuosity aside, we all know that that only comes after the pain, which kinda' lacks the incentive for me. I liken it to scrubbing the poxy loo's every week, how much satisfaction can be gained, knowing you'll only have to be repeating the process all over again?
I already stroll on the beach every day, surely that's enough, isn't it? Why, that very photo up there was taken only this morning, proof positive I'm semi-mobile!
I'm skinny enough, I don't need to drop any weight, well certainly none a bit of surgery couldn't cure (wink), where's the motivation? I've learned it's not in a woman's DNA to love her body, and have settled into accepting mine is about as good as it'll get for me, lumps and bumps and all - or put another way, at my age it's waaay too late to sweat the detail.
Discounting exercise then, I am casting around for something equally as pleasurable as my present vice, but without the obvious drawback. Any suggestions? All answers considered, but only if it isn't the obviously boring (like, "Focus more on the writing and photography, dear.."), oh, and it must be addressed in the form of a Limerick, otherwise it won't count. Top prize is it might replace my current idea - obsessively stalking all my blogger friends, on-line.
Since you appear to have rather high stakes involved, I would urge you to start writing..