And a good butch continues to admit her failings…
This post has little to do with being sartorial. And not terribly much to do with being butch. But because I KNOW that queers are more likely to partake in the activity about which I’m writing, and I’m looking for support wherever I can find it AND because of the AutoStraddle link I know there are lots of new friends reading and because the SB cares about you and about our community, I’m going to come clean about my worst habit.
I had my first cigarette courtesy of my best friend, RB. We were probably 13 or so years old, and she’d gotten some from a friends older brother. We went to the playground of our elementary school and we secretly smoked in the corner, near the fence, where hunysuckle flowers were just starting to push through in the mid-spring sunshine. I remember it being totally disgusting, and going home and telling my mom that she never had to worry about me being a smoker because it was so freaking disgusting.
Well. I was wrong. And through the 20 years that followed (holy shit, really? 20? Damn) I developed quite an affair with cigarettes that I’m hoping to finally end today. I didn’t smoke through all of them. I didn’t become a true smoker till my sophmore year in high school when I had my first girl crush and she smoked and so…you get the idea.
In college I could smoke IN MY ROOM. How cool was that?
My first partner smoked. All of my friends smoked. I worked in the restaurant industry and many of my co-workers smoked.
My next partner smoked until we decided to try and use my body to make a family and so we quit for almost 2 years save for one day every month when we knew that failure was once again real, and we had one day of debauchery before climbing on the wagon again.
And when we fell apart my nicotine laden friends were there to get me through, and they did a pretty good job of it. And I worked really hard to convince myself that smoking was cool. I even told YOU that you should have a lighter on you at all times “just in case” someone needs a light. And while I love my flashy Zippo and know how to do some neat lighter tricks, I’m realizing that maybe it isn’t so cool. I’m not James Dean and never will be, and I need to remember that he didn’t live long enough to get emphysema, or have his activities limited by his lung functions.
And now, with so much good to look forward to on the horizon, it’s time for me to quit. The reality is that I want a family. I LOVE being active. I like to run and bike and hike and push my body. And I know that smoking is not helping me to achieve any of this. I went mountain biking yesterday and my lungs have STILL not recovered fully from the outing – and It’s not like I smoke a WHOLE lot – probably about a half pack a day. But it adds up, and takes its toll, and…well, enough.
Additionally, I want to be around the SL for a long time – and we owe it to each other and the love we have to be as healthy as I can for her, and she for me.
It’s not going to be pretty or easy – but I’m going to rely on all of my strengths and my support team and my love and my friends and all of the characteristics of me that make me a strong and confident butch to get me through this.