Nothing ventured nothing gained?

Smoke free for a month and a half, give or take a few (I honestly do not keep track), I find myself slightly stunned by the ease with which the quitting process has elapsed.

Trust me and don’t believe the whiners; there’s really nothing to it.

Maintaining your originally perhaps not recommended weight, however, is everything but (easy), which I learnt trying to put on a pair of old trousers today.

I honestly haven’t a clue what I weigh (haven’t mustered the courage to approach the bathroom scales), but the situation calls for drastic measures.

Granted men in their mid-fifties shouldn’t be surprised by an extra stone here and there, but a lifelong existence as tall and slim makes the situation pretty close to unbearable.

5:2 intermittent fasting or what ever method currently in style, here I come. The wife suggested hold-in tights.

Now there’s a thought.

Be that as it may, previous experience has shown that although quitting is easy as pie, resuming is just as easy, especially with weight-gain an inevitable consequence (so no pie).

“Nothing ventured nothing gained”, my foot …

At any rate: Marlbloro? Nope. Light? Eveything but.

Illustration: Marlboro Lights Man. A picture I painted in 2014, influenced by Norwegian artist Anders Kjær’s Winston cigarette billboard painting in 1982.

La vie en fumér

Attending a party last night, I was asked to join a very pleasant lady for a cigarette outside. Just recently having quit smoking (as, by the way, has my wife) I politely declined the invitation, but said I wouldn’t mind joining her outside, to test my resistance, especially under the influence, as it were.

Which, surprisingly, or maybe not, went very well, thank you for asking.

The wife’s concern, however, upon finding the spouse with another woman by the bonfire was whether or not he’d been smoking, which struck me as a little odd, or maybe not, as it only goes to show that I can be trusted with women, as opposed to cigarettes, even if it raises a question or two pertaining to marital priorities.

Be that as it may, one’s resistance to temptations of all sorts, save wine, was unwavering, as always. On the following day, however, there’s no denying that one’s clothes do reek of smoke.

Bonfire smoke.

Or, as my one-time favourites, The Tubes (we’re talking the 1970s), once put it:

Illustration: Computer graphic Lucky, drawn by yours truly, who, knock on wood, doesn’t miss them, except for every now and then.

Actually, I did consider quit smoking.

Then again, who wants to be a quitter?

Illustration: Lucky Strike cigarette. Detail. Blogger’s own (four year old) drawing.