I am a smoker.
No, wait. I was a smoker. I’ve just switched to vaping, or using an electronic cigarette.
The stats so far:
Analogs (real cigarettes) avoided: 30.78
Money not burned $9.31
Spent on vaping: $70.85
Money saved: $-61.54
I’m going to throw myself a little party (read: double chocolate malt at Dairy Queen) when the saved status zeroes out.
The story behind this involves my recent trip to Memphis. My parents left for Ohio with the kids, and Donald and I wanted to visit Beale Street, home of the blues. We got there at around 1 in the afternoon on Sunday. I was tipsy by 3. By 4, I’d been asked to sing a few times at various clubs because I apparently have that kind of face. So I did, and I thought I sounded gawdawful but everybody was drunk and it was fun. Still, my ego got bruised.
I knew it would happen eventually. Smoking does this, right? But Beale Street?
Like most things that bruise my ego, the fact that I cracked on a crucial portamento in an Etta James song just pissed me right. the. hell. off.
Beale Street **AND** Etta James?
Ding went the light bulb right in the middle of “All I Could Do Was Cry.”
I’ve wanted to try vaping for a while, and I’ve wanted to stop smoking for even longer, and I’ve wanted to cry since I messed up that song.
My last cigarette was that night, at 10:30 p.m. on Sunday, June 30. I went 36 hours cold-turkey as a wake-up call to myself (can’t explain it, it’s just how I roll). Yesterday, when I knew I was just about to crack, I went to the vapor shop and told the nicologist (omg, love that) simply, “I broke my voice.” He nodded and said, “Dude. Yeah. Let’s fix you.”
Let’s fix me. We’ll start with this.