1 Day, 4 Hours, 9 Minutes ...

... or, if you prefer, 1689 minutes (which is 100,800 seconds). That's how long it's been since my last cigarette.

I started smoking in August 1984, when I was 17 and beginning my senior year in high school. I had a job at a nifty store at the mall called Cricket Alley. Pretty much everybody who worked there smoked, so I picked it up too. I mean, hey, I had to dress like them, answer the phone like them, act like them, sell like them ... I had to learn all of those things, and I suppose I just learned to smoke like them as well.

I've smoked through the last twenty-three and a half years pretty well without pause, except for stopping while pregnant with elder daughter because it made me ill (not with the twins, though, but that's another story which you should definitely find out about before you go hatin').

Mark quit a year ago next month, and I'm really proud of him. He was quite a piece of work for about six weeks, but we persevered and won. He kept telling me that if I was cooperative, I'd be quitting at the same time, but I thought that one of us would likely wind up on the floor in a puddle of blood (and there was a good chance it would be him), so I demurred and kept on.

For some reason, though, I've decided now it's time to stop. I don't know why the idea's got into my head, and I don't know how long it will stay. I *almost* quit a couple of years ago after the three-plane trip to England (OKC to Dallas to Boston to Manchester ... smoked in OKC, plane was late leaving Dallas, barely saw Boston, no smoking till Manchester ... I went about 10 days only smoking at the pub). Guess we'll see if I can really do it this time.

One day, four hours, twenty-one minutes ...