First, apologies that it's been so long since I've written.  Life has been insanely crazy and there are about a thousand things I could have blogged about during these past two weeks but I haven't had a spare second to actually get anything done.  Might try to catch up in the next few days, but after what happened today I simply felt compelled to hop back onto my blogwagon and shout my joy from the rooftops.

Unless you've been trapped under that proverbial rock, you no doubt are now aware that today the Supreme Court of the United States declared that marriage was a fundamental human right, thus making same-sex marriage legal in all 50 States.  All of them.  Every one.

Such amazing news. Finally, marriage equality in the US. Happy pride!!! https://t.co/oagrkcRp53

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 26, 2015

I've been married for nine years.  I believe very strongly in the concept of committing your life to the person in this world that, if you're lucky enough to find, you want to spend the rest of your days with.  Marriage fundamentally changed our relationship for the better, if you ask me.  It deepened our connection to one another and, for lack of a better descriptor, anchored us to one another, both legally and emotionally, in a way that didn't exist the day before we made it all official. 

I can't even begin to imagine what it would have been like had someone told us along the way that our love wasn't recognized by any level of government and that our marriage could only be symbolic, never legal. Mostly because I've never had to - as a woman who married a man, our love, our commitment to one another and our desire to make our bond legal was never an issue.  Ever.

As a Canadian, I've lived in a country where same sex marriage has been legal for almost ten years, and sometimes I forget that there are still so many who struggle for marriage equality just south of our border.  On vacation last year we met a wonderful couple who later got engaged and married this April.  The simple fact that we had to ask if their marriage was going to be legal in their home state broke my heart (thankfully the answer was yes) and reminded me yet again how far we'd come as a country and how much still had to be done elsewhere.

I don't know if I can even fully describe how emotionally impacted I was by today's decision by the US Supreme Court.  I don't know if it's because I have a number of close friends and colleagues in same sex relationships and so I rejoice on their behalf, or simply because I believe with every fiber of my being that love is love and everyone should be free to marry whomever they please.

Regardless, I've been tweeting and posting statuses and updating Facebook profile and cover photos with images that show my strong support for this long overdue ruling that finally brings marriage equality to every citizen of the United States.  I've been addicted to the hashtags and am reveling in the joy of those marginalized for so long.  And for the moment I'm choosing to ignore the negativity of those opposed to equality, often in the name of religion, because today's news is just too good to let those consumed by antiquated notions of what marriage should be rain on this parade.

Here are a few of my fave pics from today:





This last one might be one of my favourites of the entire day.  It almost brought me to tears when I first saw it as I think it captures so much in one poignant drawing.

Walking to the train station today after work I passed the US Consulate and snapped a picture.

Rainbow flag looks a little brighter on the @usconstoronto today. #LoveWins #HappyPride #SCOTUSMarriage pic.twitter.com/KdO5PthaKd

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 26, 2015

I've been thinking about it for hours now and I still can't explain why this has touched me so today.  I think it's a combination of the very public and long overdue recognition of equal rights by the highest legal body in the US and the pride that I can take as a Canadian because we figured this out ourselves and did something about it an entire decade ago.  Yay Canada.

In the final analysis I fully admit I don't care at all why it's moved me so.  It simply has.  And given how strongly I feel about it, I can't even begin to imagine how those whose lives (and loves) have been transformed today must feel.  About the possibility.  The options.  The simple but powerful notion of equality now available to them, whether they ever choose to do anything with it or not.

Sometimes just knowing you can, after having been told for so long you weren't entitled, is enough.

What a great kickoff to pride weekend here in Toronto.  Happy Pride, one and all.  After today's decision I'm just so delighted to say that love wins always and all ways.



 

I like numbers.  Strange, because I never really enjoyed math much in school, but now?  Numbers are hella cool.

I like doing an analysis of something, anything, and coming up with facts and figures.  And dates. I love dates.  Good dates, mind you.  With good numbers in them.  I way prefer even numbers to odd - this even impacts how I feel when a new years begins.  I'm way more optimistic about a year that ends in an even number than an odd one.  The exception being any year that ends in five because that's half way through a decade.

You wouldn't believe the disappointment I felt when I realized the home we had fallen in love with and wanted to buy was number 63.  So very sad.  Why couldn't it have been a fricken even number?  Alas.

Weird. 

You think I'm weird.  I get that a lot.

I was delighted when our wedding date (06/10/06) worked out so beautifully.  Look at that - isn't it just a thing of beauty to behold?  If you're paying attention, you'll notice that yesterday was our ninth wedding anniversary.  :)  Yes, we had a lovely day, thank you.  Went to dinner, another place for dessert, then came home, looked at our pictures and relived our wedding.  Wonderful. 

But I digress.  Back to the task at hand.  Numbers.

So yes, numbers are important to me, likely well beyond reason in most cases.  Numbers matter.  Dates matter.  And on today's date, the number that matters most is six.

Six is important because if things had actually worked out as we'd hoped they would, today we'd be celebrating the sixth birthday of our son or daughter. 

In September of 2008, following a round of IVF, I was finally pregnant.  We'd tried for years (see my post Life After Infertility for all the deets should you so desire) and something had worked!   We were beyond ecstatic, delighted in every way that two people who desperately want a child together could possibly be.

And then it all went to shit.

I won't go through the details of the miscarriage itself - I may revisit that in November when that particular date rolls around and I reflect on the day, but for the purposes of today's post, we'll gloss right over it.

No, today is what those in the pregnancy world have come to call the 'estimated due date'.  And while babies rarely come on time, this is as close a date I can possibly get when thinking of when our little one would have been born.

I miscarried at 9 weeks and 4 days.  I have no clue if it was a boy or a girl, it was just way too early to possibly find out, and that not knowing still leaves me longing me in a strange, indescribable way all these years later.   I wonder on more occasions than I can count what he or she would look like.  What little personality quirks they'd have.  If they'd take after me or their father, or be the best combination of both of us. 

I saw this image today and it spoke to me more than probably anything else has to date because in one sentence it captures everything I feel...


It's a sentiment that haunts me.

As does the moment when I saw what should have been my child's tiny heart flutter and beat on an ultrasound screen.  That image - the sound, the animation - is burned in my brain, seared there for all time.

For a while I wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.  To have that memory of coming so close, of seeing life, only to lose it all a very short while later.  To be so keenly aware of my body's own ability to betray me yet again, ever so cruelly and with such epic finality. 

I'd never made it to that point before; never had a positive pregnancy test, and never would again.   That was my one, fleeting moment; my 30 second glimpse of a child that would not be. 

Yet now, with hindsight and some distance, I cling wildly to the image and choose to be grateful for the simple fact that it happened and not merely full of sorrow for the hole in my own heart that it represents.

Micheal and I were talking late last night about how different our lives would be had things gone differently those years ago.  We'd have a little one now who could be excited about finishing school for the summer and we'd possibly be making plans for what to do on vacation.  We may or may not have Finn.  We likely wouldn't have travelled to Mexico these past few years and probably would not have turned the focus on ourselves enough to lose the weight.  Which means I likely wouldn't have taken up running, but chances are our weekends would be full anyway with dance classes or soccer games or any other of a myriad of activities I'd long dreamed of enrolling our child in.  Back in the days when dreaming wasn't so painful.

While both Micheal and I would state without hesitation that we wanted a child of our own, we have somehow made peace with our situation and are doing our best to live a full and fulfilling life together, replete with love and laughter and yes, the coveted opportunity to sleep in. 

So while it's in many ways heartbreakingly sad to think that in some parallel universe we would be tucking our newly minted six year old into bed right about now, in so many others I'm grateful for what my reality offers, too.   I have a wonderful life and am viscerally aware that while we suffered, and still do to some degree to this day, we're so very fortunate.  Period.

Today I allow myself the opportunity to dwell a bit on (and wonder about) what might have been.  And tomorrow I'll do my best to shake it off and get back to focusing on what's good - and real - in my here and now.

Added bonus?  Tomorrow's an even numbered day. 

I'm an admitted nail polish addict.  Now,  I've seen people who have it uber bad for all things polish, hundreds of colours from eight million brands.  I've not yet made it to that level.  Almost, but not quite.  Not that there's anything wrong with that...

If you know me, I challenge you to think of the last time you saw my nails, fingers or toes, sans polish.  There are really only three possible responses:
1) you can't
2) you grew up with me, so the last time would have been in childhood
3) you happened to be with me for one of the few times I've had surgery and those pesky nurses required me to be without nail polish so they could monitor my blood oxygen levels via my finger tip.

Yes, that's how serious I am about having my nails covered with pretty polish at all times.

Sadly, the more I wear it, the more I HAVE to wear it.  My nails are now yellowed thanks to years worth of coverage and they just aren't esthetically appealing for the eye to behold sans varnish.  Hence why I have to keep wearing it.  Hence why they stay yellow.  On and on the circle goes.

Since they're always covered, I do enjoy playing with different colours, etc, as the seasons come and go, and have fun experimenting where appropriate with different nail treatments as the situation warrants.

There are my holiday nails and special events nails (the sideways one was when Canada was playing for hockey gold in the Olympics)....


 ...and my running nails.  The 1-10 was for my very first 10k race and the 21.1 for my one and only half marathon.

• Paint nails with either a white polish or a nice nude.  I prefer the nude, actually.  More forgiving if you miss a small section or dab off more than you want to whereas the white really shines through.  White can give you a greater colour pop though, so entirely your personal preference.  I really like Sand Tropez by Essie as below for my base.  Two coats are a must.  Ensure both coats are fully dry before the next step.

• Choose your colours.  Some people like three, I'm more of a two colour gal myself.  I have small nail beds, so two is about as much as they can take.  Grab a makeup sponge and get ready to go. 
• Apply the polish to the edge of the makeup sponge.  Doesn't really matter which one you choose, some like the sides, others prefer the bottom, it's all about what's easiest for you to grip.  I prefer to start with the darkest colour on the bottom - again, personal preference.  I've done it both ways and like the look of darker on the bottom.  Apply the second colour directly above the first so the two colours touch.  

credit to @SabrinaNails - great tutorial

• Roll/stamp the sponge along your nail, ensuring you line up the bottom of the sponge with the base of your nail.  Yes, the sides will become a sloppy mess.  Deal with it.  :)
• If you want, dab a few times to bring some of the base colour up and into the top colour so it's not a straight line.  Don't dab too much - you'll start pulling the polish up. 
• Reapply polish to sponge between each nail application.  Yes, you'll use a lot of polish.  You just will. 
• Once you've finished your first coat, apply a second.  Watch for any exposed white/nude spots. Again, don't dab too much - a few dabs'll do ya.  I'd also suggest switching sides of the sponge or even starting with a new one so you don't glob up. 
• As you finish the second coat on one hand, don't go immediately to the other hand.  Instead, apply your top coat right away to the completed hand to help smooth everything out.  I LOVE Essie Good To Go - my fave quick drying top coat evar in life. 
• Finish your second hand with polish and apply top coat. 
• Now it's clean up time. Dip a q-tip in polish remover and gently clean up the sponge marks at the side of your finger and under your nails.  Yes, polish will end up there, too.  And on your finger tips.  And your polish caps.  A bit of clean up but well worth it.  Note here - if you hate the clean up you can also google some funky nail taping, with regular ole Scotch tape, techniques to keep the excess off the sides.  I'm of the firm mind that ain't nobody got time for that, but would be remiss in not mentioning it if you're not up for the mess. 
• And you're done!  Beautiful, individual, unique ombre nails.  

This was my first attempt using Julep's Kam (green) and Jules (pink).  Turned out rather well for my first go, I thought.  I liked the contrast of colours - and it looked even better in person than in the photo.


And finally, here's my most recent attempt which I quite like.  This is really only two colours but actually looks like three where they meet in the middle.  The bottom colour is Essie Mod Square and the top is once again Julep's Kam - can you tell I really like that green?

I find these ombre nails more challenging to photograph so here are two pics with different backgrounds to give you an idea of how they can change depending on the light.



So there you have it!  Easy peasy, I swear!  And you'll get lots of comments and compliments on them, I most certainly have.  People have asked where I got them done or if they were Jamberry applique nails and they're always shocked when I say I did them myself.  But as you can see, there aren't that many steps and, best of all, this is not a technique where perfection is required!!

Give it a try yourself.  Would love to see what colour combinations you come up with.

In January of this year I made a decision to do something rather extreme.  I signed up for the #NoHairSelfie event and pledged that if I raised $10,000, I'd shave my head in support of cancer research at The Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation (not coincidentally my place of work).

Me and Micheal post shave.  Almost twinsies!!

So glad Kris and her husband Doug were able to come

Then it was all over and life returned to normal.  The funds had been raised, my scalp had been razed, and now it was all about the regrowth.

What I hadn't really counted on was pink stubble. Ha!  I kinda love this picture, but in actuality I resembled a pink cheetah with all sorts of spots on my head.  It had to go.  Back to the bleaching phase we went, getting rid of the pink this time and returning my hair, via yet another chemical cocktail, to what we expected was my natural brown.


Man, was it short.  I must say, I hated it.  I really did.  I didn't feel feminine at all.  I loved that it was low maintenance and that I got extra sleep in the morning (still do!) but I lost a part of me for those first few months.  I didn't see a woman looking back at me in the mirror each day and that was surprisingly hard to process.  Gave me an entirely new and deep understanding for what women who lose their hair during chemo experience.  The difference, of course, was that mine started growing back the instant it was shaved off.  Theirs, not so much.  Their process is oh so much longer.


And since this all went down in February (FEBRUARY!!!) as February 4 is World Cancer Day, it was frickin frackin cold.  I bought more hats during those months than I had cumulatively in my life thus far. 


Slowly (very slowly) but surely, my hair is coming back.  To me, it's taking forever.  Like an insanely long period of time.  At this rate I figure it will take me up to a year to get back to where I was before, and I had pretty short hair to start with!

Never in my wildest dreams did I suspect that the regrowth period would be this lengthy.  Ha.  Ironic.

Three months later - May 4

One month later - March 4

Two months later - April 4

And so today, June 4, marks four months since I had my head shaved in support of cancer research.


I'm ever so gradually getting more comfortable with my constantly evolving new look and am the first to admit that I'm very fortunate that it's coming back at all.  I've also lucked out in that people seem to think - or maybe they're lying to my face - that they like the short cut, that it suits me, and I should stick with it.

Fat chance, that's all I've got to say!  Still some more growing to be done, for sure!


Today was also the public launch of a Princess Margaret campaign that focuses on research.  We use the phrase 'Why is in Our DNA' when we talk about it, and ask people to consider who is their why?  Who they think about when they get involved in any kind of cancer cause?

A massive group of us stood in front of the new Princess Margaret Cancer Research Tower on College Street this morning, clad in lab coats and holding up signs explaining who we were there for.  And while sadly there's not enough room on that one sign to include everyone I think about when I go to work and do what I do each day, I was sure to include Kris and my amazing mother in law on that sign as representatives of my 'why'.


They were all my why's then, on a cold February evening four months ago, and they'll continue to be my why's for the months and years to come, through all the hairstyles, long and short, in my future.

For more information on either of these efforts, go to www.nohairselfie.com and/or www.whoisyourwhy.ca.

Please allow me to offer my utmost apologies for what you're about to read.   Time was not my friend but I still wanted to get a recap up asap so this was the best I could do on short notice.

When I watch each episode I do two things - I tweet like a mofo during the show, and I have a blog post draft screen open so I can pop in little tidbits as they happen.  This way I can just come back and elaborate on them later. 

Since I don't have time for a full post, this mishmash of the two will have to do. I figure if nothing else it will give you a creepy view into my brain as it slowly turns to mush during the 120 minutes of pure trashy glory that is each Monday night episode.

Hope you enjoy!!  Although I warn you, this might hurt your head to read. 

Kupah is seen out

See ya! Don't let the ice fall out of your glass as you shut the van door, son. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

Tony stays - whut?

Eyes of a child, heart of a warrior, gypsy soul, form of...a bucket of water. Wonder twins, activate! #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

sumo

Oh hey! Boxing went so well, let's let the dudes wrestle! Sigh. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

balls everywhere

Lots of similarities between sumo and football. Except in football there's only one ball on the field of play. BOOM! #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

Tony freaks out

Tony. Stop saying words. Especially the same ones, over and over again. Oh, but spitting? Way cool. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

Sumo exhibition
Kaitlyn gets tossed around

Oh hey now. Lifted up by a thin strip of fabric, suspended mid-air by my lady piece? Thanks but no! #thebachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

butts everywhere
tony doesn't show
tony leaves the show

$20 says Tony reeks of patchouli in that poncho thing of his. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

room escape with ben z
she's scared of birds like I am of spiders

If there were spiders up in this joint I would SMASH THROUGH THAT WALL, I tell you what. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

love those things - got it done with a second to spare
toilet is gross, yo
nice chemistry between them - he handled that well

sex ed group date -  Ben is cute

Tonight is all about the Bens, 'bout them Bens, no Tony. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

love that she pranked them with this

Fake kid's reaction to sex ed stuff

Jared gets one on one time since he got knocked out last time
still has black eye - she wants to punch him again to keep it


he wants the rose baaaaaad - not sure how i feel about him

Jared's either the super sweet guy who cooks you breakfast or the super creepy guy who cooks you FOR breakfast. Jury's out. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

Clint and JJ bromance - ridic

"Villains gotta vill' Cue massive eye roll. #TheBachelorette

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

 No rose ceremony - once again we're left hanging like Joe's left nut

And another #TheBachelorette comes to a close without any closure. Sigh.

— Shannon Stuart (@shanstu) June 2, 2015

And that's a wrap!!

That's a pretty big number.

Then again, maybe it's not.  Everything's relative.  But to me, this is one helluva big number.

So what is it, you ask?  Well, 25,564 is an estimate, though a pretty darned good one, of the number of cigarettes I have not smoked in the past decade.

Over 25,000 cigarettes.  1,022 packs.  And I couldn't even bring myself to do the math as to how much money I would have spent on those packs had I kept going.  

Ten years ago today, on June 1, 2005, I quit smoking for the last time.

And I haven't had even a single drag since.

I started smoking when I was 15.   In high school, if you can believe it.  I'd sneak a cigarette here and there just over the magical yellow line marking what was and was not high school property.   I'd go out in my kilt and cardigan (Catholic school, uniform, etc), whip out a pack of Avanti Light (my brand of choice), spark one up, and revel in my rebellion.

Seeing as I was 15 it should have been hard to get cigarettes, right?  But if I think back on it (which is increasingly hard to do considering how long ago it was) if memory serves it was no challenge at all.  Even three years under the legal minimum age, I'd saunter in, order up, pay my money, and be out the door, no questions asked.

Smoking was something I somehow hid from my parents for a good number of years.  I made it a point to only smoke at school or in my car, which I was fortunate enough to get once I turned 16,  and never at home.  Too risky.  My mother, who watched her parents smoke like chimneys her entire life and had the asthma to go with it was vehemently anti smoking and wouldn't allow anyone, Dad (who smoked himself off and on for years), guest or otherwise, to smoke in the home.  And the thought of being caught by her one day was more than enough to keep any packs I had hidden away.  Very hidden.

She did find out of course, years later, in the most random of ways.  One summer in university I was driving on to campus (she and I both worked there) as she was leaving and she passed me in her car.  I was smoking in mine.  She saw me.  I didn't see her go by, so needless to say the 'I'm very disappointed in you' speech I received when I got home that night came completely out of left field.  Yet as much as it sucked in the moment, in a strange way I was glad it was out in the open and I didn't have to hide my dirty little secret any longer.

Not that I smoked around her often anyway, even after it became public knowledge.  Her disdain for the habit given her family history made me reticent to do it in front of her. Just felt wrong.  But, sadly, never 'wrong enough to get me to quit. 
 
Like many others I'd tried giving it up on a number of occasions.  I'd make it a few days, sometimes even weeks, then I'd fall off the wagon and be back on the butts.

Now let the record show that I was never a very heavy smoker.  The number I've used to estimate the smokes I haven't smoked is based on a seven cigarette a day habit.  Most days I was closer to five, but then there were those weekends where I'd go out to a bar with friends and, well, since you could still smoke in bars back on those days, the more I'd drink, the more I'd smoke, so that accounts for the increase in my estimated my daily average.  To this day my urge for a cigarette is highest if I happen to be having a rye and coke, my drink of choice back in my freewheeling 20s.  And 30s.  But that's another post.

But even at five cigarettes a day, I was well and truly addicted.

So what finally made me quit, you ask?

Was it working at a cancer hospital?  Nope.  Though that alone should have been a fantastic reason to quit.

Was it because I finally decided that it was the right thing to do?  Nuh uh. 

Was it because my boyfriend (now husband) told me that he didn't want to bury me 20 years before my time, so if I wanted our relationship to progress I'd need to quit smoking?  Ding ding ding.

That's how it all came to pass.  I quit smoking for love.  Once I realized I loved him more than cigarettes, the decision was made.  The smokes had to go.

Was it hard? Hell yes.  I'd decided that June 1 was my quit date (I like round numbers) and even then I rationalized that as long as I quit on June 1, I could still have a few smokes during the first half of June 1. So smoked my face off that day, almost to the point where I felt sick, and that was that.

I found a few key things really helped me through my first month.  For anyone thinking about quitting, here are a few of my secrets to success:

1. I didn't finish the pack of cigarettes I was smoking that day.  Instead, I put the remainder of the pack in my freezer and left them there.  I knew that my anxiety around smoking was always at its peak when I had only one smoke left in the pack or was completely out.  That feeling was like nothing else - the fretting about when you'd be at a store next to get a fresh pack and the subsequent relief once said pack had been procured.  So since I didn't want to add that to my mental battle I left a few smokes out of sight but not out of mind so that it was always a conscious choice.  I had them so I could smoke them, but I chose not to. Semantics, sure, but it worked.  There they stayed for two and a half years until we bought our first house and moved out.  I figured by that point my smoking days were indeed behind me so I didn't need to take them to the new place.  In the garbage went my security blanket and I was fine.
2. I used the patch for the first week as extra backup.  Not necessarily because I believed I needed the nicotine but because I saw it as a kind of insurance policy.  I instinctively knew how dangerous it would be to smoke WHILE on the patch, so that knowledge alone helped me get through some of the most severe cravings.  By week two I realized that the patch was twice as expensive as cigarettes were, given the volume I had once smoked, so I decided to give up the patch, too, and forged ahead on my own. 
3. I tried to focus on the money I was saving by not smoking.  I'd generally buy a pack every three to four days, so twice a week I'd put half the cost of a pack of ciggies aside and save it up.  As I'd hit non-smoking time milestones (a week, a month, etc) I'd use that bit of cash to buy myself something frivolous as a reward for my perseverance.   I didn't feel the need to put the whole amount aside since I was trying to cut back on my spending by quitting smoking in the first place, but I also knew that what I was doing was a big deal and that those milestones, while potentially trivial to others, were exceedingly important to celebrate so I'd keep going. 
4. I stayed away from rye and coke for the first month.  As mentioned before, the association was so strong that I simply couldn't.  Didn't give up coffee, though - that would have been a catastrophe. 
5. I told everyone I knew, friends and family alike, that I was quitting.  And I asked them to call me on it if the saw me slip up.  The more people that knew and that I'd have to 'answer to', the less likely I'd be to fail. 
6. I found a text version of the image below (fancy pics like these didn't exist a decade ago), printed it and kept it in my wallet.  It was a lifeline to me, and helped me take pride in how far I'd come.  And since I didn't want to have to go back to square one, it also talked me off a proverbial ledge more than a few times.   

 

I realize that not all of these methods can work for everyone but I put them out there just in case because together with much support from those who cared about me, these six strategies made it possible for me to quit for good.

So here I am, ten years later.  I now have half the risk of dying from lung cancer as a smoker.  And while I'm happy to see that number reduced by 50%, there's still a not insignificant part of me that wonders about the extent of the damage I caused myself during the 17 years that I did smoke.  Four short years ago I watched lung cancer violently claim my mother in law, a long time smoker, in an exceedingly short period of time.  And from a very selfish perspective it scared me.  Huge.  Why do we choose this horrible habit?  And how do we so willingly do this to ourselves?

They say it's as hard or even harder to quit smoking than it is to kick heroin.  While I can't personally weigh in on that particular battle I will say that kicking cigarettes was damned hard, and I wasn't even a pack a day smoker.  Quitting sucks, plain and simple.  The habit, the routine, that first drag and the sweet relief that comes with it, the social aspects, the delightful combination of first smoke of the day with the first coffee, the break from your desk in the middle of a workday...all are hard to give up.

But what you get back - your sense of smell and taste, not reeking like an ashtray at all times, money, your health - is so far beyond measure, it's not pales in comparison.

People who've met me over the past few years find it almost impossible to believe that I once smoked, especially since I run now and generally live a much healthier lifestyle than I used to. And I'm okay with that.  Delighted, in fact, for smoking to be but a part of my history and to have no place in my present.

If you're a smoker reading this and you're thinking about quitting, I wish you all the best moving forward.  It's getting harder and harder to smoke anywhere these days, which I can only hope has actually made quitting somewhat less painful since it's not as easy to just go have a smoke as it was when I quit a decade ago. 

Do it, you really won't regret it.   I'm living proof that it can be done.  Find your reason, whatever it might be, and quit, once and for all.  I know it's much easier said than done, but there are eleventy billion different resources at your disposal now so take advantage of them.   Seek out options and put a plan into motion. I promise you won't regret it.  Maybe not for the first few weeks - hell, I regretted it every second of those first couple days! - but it does come.

Today I celebrate 10 years smoke free.  And while I will admit that there are still days that, completely out of the blue, I crave a cigarette, all I have to do is look at my husband of almost nine years to know that every single day of these 10 years has bought me infinitely more time with him...and the craving goes away. 

I take a deep breath, exhale clean air from my healthier lungs, and I smile. 

Every time.