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EVERYONE NEEDS TO READ THIS - 5150
https://mitbrickman.com/2016/04/02/quitting-cigarettes-almost-killed-me/
I began smoking full-time in third grade. Why? Mainly because I was cool. Well that, and because I grew up watching my parents, grandparents, neighbors, and every celebrity lighting up. My grandparents bought cartons of Camels by the case and stored them in their garage; providing plenty of opportunities for mini-me to abscond with packs (or even an occasional carton), stuffed under my favorite Happy Days t-shirt. It was blue and had the Fonz on it, thumbs up and head cocked to the side, saying “Ayyyyyyyyy“. Told you I was cool.
Note: In case you’re one of those rabid crusaders who pushes for ever-tougher regulations against the local 7-Elevens because you fear they are selling cigarettes to minors (you’ll know you’re one of these people if (a) you’re really old and have more than 10 political bumper stickers on your Subaru, (b) you’re in school and a teacher who falls into the previous categoryis giving you extra credit to do it, or (c) you go to every single city, county, or state meeting on tobacco control and speak out against the evils of cigarettes, capitalists, and convenience stores) you should be aware that the statistics actually show that youth get cigarettes from family or social contactssignificantly more than they do by purchasing them. From the age of eight until 18 (when I could legally buy), I smoked every day and never attempted to actually buy a pack. (Okay, that’s not completely true. I bought one pack in fourth grade from an unattended vending machine in a diner, but my brother threw them into a creek so I don’t really count it.)
By high school I was smoking a pack a day, and in 1988 I graduated to two packs a day. I once tried to hit three, but discovered that going beyond 20-25 cigarettes in any one day gave me a headache, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and not enough money for food. And it took too much dedication; smoking three packs a day is like a competitive sport where you actually have to work to hit the mark.
In the Fall of 1995, after smoking for fifteen years, I decided to quit. My first daughter was born and I didn’t want her to spend a childhood like mine, in the back seat of a car covered in blown ash carelessly flicked out the window by my father. I figured that if I could at least make that improvement, I could claim that I gave her a better childhood than I had. That’s the goal, right?
I went cold turkey, as they say. I could have done the gum or the patch, but my boss at the time was a poster child for the ineffectiveness of those options. He was a good-looking man’s man; dark skinned, mustachioed, with piercing brown eyes that always noticed when I was slacking off. He would often launch into stories of his childhood traveling the dirt roads of Central California with his migrant farm-working family. He had gone to college, obtained an executive position with a national retail company, owned a beautiful home in the San Francisco Bay Area, and spent his free days golfing. Or so he told his wife.
He had confided in me one afternoon (the edge of a nicotine patch visible under the shirt cuff of one swarthy arm, a wad of nicotine gum doing calisthenics behind his dark mustache, as he lit a cigarette – apparently not realizing that another was already lit and smoking in the ashtray on his desk) that he actually spent his free days fucking the community college girls who worked at one of the retail stores he managed.
“I just stuff a couple of tees in my pocket and stop on the side of the road before I get home to rub mud on my pant legs,” he laughed, loud and long before picking up both lit cigarettes – looking at them for a moment before crushing one out with a shrug.
But I digress.
The point is, when it came time for me to quit cigarettes I had absolutely no faith in a patch or a gum. So cold turkey it was.
Were you aware that numerous studies show that simply walking away from cigarettes results in negative health issues? I wasn’t. There is a higher incidence of weight gain, hypertension, and diabetes among those who quit smoking cold turkey. Here is a photo of me a couple of months after I quit smoking:
Totally hot, I know. Even with the 80s haircut that managed to survive on my head all of the way into the 90s. Now, fast forward to me after eleven years of struggling to forget about cigarettes:
Same guy. You can tell by the I’m-not-really-smiling-smile. After years of replacing cigarettes with food, I went from 180 to 350 pounds. In this photo I was hypertensive, prediabetic, miserable, and had developed sleep apnea. If I knew in the before picture what I knew in the after picture, I would have punched the people who recommend cold turkey in the face. I still will, so watch your comments.
Was there really a benefit? I know that cigarettes will kill you. No one argues that. But being morbidly obese will too. Regardless of the current movement that says being fat is ‘healthy’ as long as you are happy and still like yourself; your body never got that memo. You’ll just apparently die happy. Or pretending that you’re happy. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t pretending, and I was about to hit the store and pick up my favorite brand of cigarettes again.
So what was the answer for me? It just so happens that I stumbled across one – and I’m not even going to charge you for it.
https://mitbrickman.com/2016/04/02/quitting-cigarettes-almost-killed-me/
I began smoking full-time in third grade. Why? Mainly because I was cool. Well that, and because I grew up watching my parents, grandparents, neighbors, and every celebrity lighting up. My grandparents bought cartons of Camels by the case and stored them in their garage; providing plenty of opportunities for mini-me to abscond with packs (or even an occasional carton), stuffed under my favorite Happy Days t-shirt. It was blue and had the Fonz on it, thumbs up and head cocked to the side, saying “Ayyyyyyyyy“. Told you I was cool.
Note: In case you’re one of those rabid crusaders who pushes for ever-tougher regulations against the local 7-Elevens because you fear they are selling cigarettes to minors (you’ll know you’re one of these people if (a) you’re really old and have more than 10 political bumper stickers on your Subaru, (b) you’re in school and a teacher who falls into the previous categoryis giving you extra credit to do it, or (c) you go to every single city, county, or state meeting on tobacco control and speak out against the evils of cigarettes, capitalists, and convenience stores) you should be aware that the statistics actually show that youth get cigarettes from family or social contactssignificantly more than they do by purchasing them. From the age of eight until 18 (when I could legally buy), I smoked every day and never attempted to actually buy a pack. (Okay, that’s not completely true. I bought one pack in fourth grade from an unattended vending machine in a diner, but my brother threw them into a creek so I don’t really count it.)
By high school I was smoking a pack a day, and in 1988 I graduated to two packs a day. I once tried to hit three, but discovered that going beyond 20-25 cigarettes in any one day gave me a headache, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and not enough money for food. And it took too much dedication; smoking three packs a day is like a competitive sport where you actually have to work to hit the mark.
In the Fall of 1995, after smoking for fifteen years, I decided to quit. My first daughter was born and I didn’t want her to spend a childhood like mine, in the back seat of a car covered in blown ash carelessly flicked out the window by my father. I figured that if I could at least make that improvement, I could claim that I gave her a better childhood than I had. That’s the goal, right?
I went cold turkey, as they say. I could have done the gum or the patch, but my boss at the time was a poster child for the ineffectiveness of those options. He was a good-looking man’s man; dark skinned, mustachioed, with piercing brown eyes that always noticed when I was slacking off. He would often launch into stories of his childhood traveling the dirt roads of Central California with his migrant farm-working family. He had gone to college, obtained an executive position with a national retail company, owned a beautiful home in the San Francisco Bay Area, and spent his free days golfing. Or so he told his wife.
He had confided in me one afternoon (the edge of a nicotine patch visible under the shirt cuff of one swarthy arm, a wad of nicotine gum doing calisthenics behind his dark mustache, as he lit a cigarette – apparently not realizing that another was already lit and smoking in the ashtray on his desk) that he actually spent his free days fucking the community college girls who worked at one of the retail stores he managed.
“I just stuff a couple of tees in my pocket and stop on the side of the road before I get home to rub mud on my pant legs,” he laughed, loud and long before picking up both lit cigarettes – looking at them for a moment before crushing one out with a shrug.
But I digress.
The point is, when it came time for me to quit cigarettes I had absolutely no faith in a patch or a gum. So cold turkey it was.
Were you aware that numerous studies show that simply walking away from cigarettes results in negative health issues? I wasn’t. There is a higher incidence of weight gain, hypertension, and diabetes among those who quit smoking cold turkey. Here is a photo of me a couple of months after I quit smoking:
Totally hot, I know. Even with the 80s haircut that managed to survive on my head all of the way into the 90s. Now, fast forward to me after eleven years of struggling to forget about cigarettes:
Same guy. You can tell by the I’m-not-really-smiling-smile. After years of replacing cigarettes with food, I went from 180 to 350 pounds. In this photo I was hypertensive, prediabetic, miserable, and had developed sleep apnea. If I knew in the before picture what I knew in the after picture, I would have punched the people who recommend cold turkey in the face. I still will, so watch your comments.
Was there really a benefit? I know that cigarettes will kill you. No one argues that. But being morbidly obese will too. Regardless of the current movement that says being fat is ‘healthy’ as long as you are happy and still like yourself; your body never got that memo. You’ll just apparently die happy. Or pretending that you’re happy. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t pretending, and I was about to hit the store and pick up my favorite brand of cigarettes again.
So what was the answer for me? It just so happens that I stumbled across one – and I’m not even going to charge you for it.
