number 62
on list “101 things to do before i die”
#62 – see red sox win world series
how unbelievably good does *that* feel?!?!!!!
exciting, informative, snarky, and very likely fabricated tales of life as an american expat in london
Like this postthe meaning of it all
if there is one thing uniting sox fans today, it’s incredulous awe.
a full day later, and i have to say, i still am not sure i’ve fully got my head around it. what does it all mean? is the rivalry with the yanks over? do we have nothing bigger and better to look forward to from here on out? have we become a fad phenomenon? will we win again, or go back to our well-worn losing ways?
and the biggest: without a curse to gripe about, what does it mean to be a sox fan now?
i guess my answer is this. it doesn’t really matter. red sox fans will remain red sox fans, because we love them.
red sox nation was never truly defined by our martyrdom or long suffering misery. that was how others defined us.
we defined ourselves very simply, as fans of the greatest sports team ever. the red sox were never a cause or a charity we signed on for. they were just a team of men, playing a game we loved, for fans who were truly passionate about baseball. a team which we sometimes lauded, sometimes cursed, but always stood by. it’s always been a marriage, for better or for worse – not because of the success, or lack thereof, but rather because we just love the team. marriages change, but true love remains always. we loved them when they were ugly, we loved them when they were poor, and we loved them when they were sick and sad and downtrodden. we did not love them *because* of these things. we loved them in spite of them.
winning and losing are transitory states of being, much like ice to water to vapor. and tomorrow or the day after, there will be more winning and losing. but the essence remains the same. they are ours and we are theirs, forever and ever, amen.
the only thing which has changed in all of this, is the acknowledgement by others, of what we have always known. The definition by others, of what we have always seen before our very eyes.
Greatness.
Champions.
spillover
Seven hours ago, one of my lifelong dreams came true.
You ask me how I feel? The answer right now, is I don’t know. How do you feel when something you never thought you’d live to see, happens before your very eyes? How do you feel, when the deep ache of a lifetime of grief, is suddenly, instantaneously released, evaporating into the universe? How do you feel when such a huge burden is lifted? When expectations of heartache are suddenly replaced with glee?
It’s surreal. In a moment, the whole landscape has changed, and everything is different. You’ve been so often to the depths of despair, it’s unfathomable that you’re suddenly on top of the world. It’s overwhelming, and draining, and blessedly disconcerting. I’m not complaining.
In the final innings, I was suspended in a state of disbelief. I couldn’t comprehend that it was actually happening. If you’d asked me how I would react with the final out, I would’ve told you insane screaming, jumping, uncontainable exuberance.
Instead, I cried. I cried for all the times I’d been reduced to tears before. I cried for all the fans who never got to witness their dream. I cried in sweet release of years of frustration, sadness, and confusion. I cried decades of pent up emotion. I cried for the fulfilment of inconceivable hopes and silent prayers. I cried because it felt good, and I cried because it felt right.
For once, in my years of fandom, I cried because I was happy.
the easy way
Manny Ramirez: “We always knew who we were. We never doubted who we were.
“Baseball is supposed to be fun. When you play that way, the game is easy. We found a way to make baseball easy.”
what i remember
This is what I remember:
- Learning to throw a baseball at age 7 with my dad and brother in the backyard, in the sweltering heat of summer. Always overhand – I didn’t know girls weren’t supposed to throw. Catching pop-ups and fielding bouncing grounders in the uneven grass, learning not to be afraid of the ball coming at your face hard and fast, even after taking a few in the teeth. Swinging for the fences, choking up on the bat, and following through to make it soar. Oiling my glove, wrapping it around a ball with rubber bands, and sleeping with it under my mattress.
- Taking my glove to Fenway with my family at 9. We sat it the nosebleed bleachers, and packed our own peanuts and popcorn in a sack. The little transistor radio we brought sending out tinny updates to describe the plays we were seated too far away to see. Every foul ball seemed like it could be headed our way, and we wore our gloves for the entire game, with pure childlike optimism.
- My brother collected baseball cards. He pored over them and memorised them and organised them with the intensity of an ancient texts scholar. He could quote statistics at will, even if he couldn’t do long division. The Holy Grail was a Carl Yazstremski rookie card, and he tore open every new pack with the whispered prayer of finding one. He never did.
- Carl Yazstremski retired from the Red Sox in 1983, after 22 years in Fenway’s left field. I was 11. I watched him jog slowly and reluctantly around the field, shaking fans hands, waving his cap, tears in his eyes, to the thunderous adoration of 35,000 fans, who didn’t want to let him leave. It remains the classiest baseball moment i’ve ever been privileged enough to witness. He remains my all-time baseball hero.
- Yaz, Dwight Evans, Jim Rice, Jerry Remy, Carlton Fisk, and Dennis Eckersley. These are the men who inspired my lifelong love for the game.
- Listening to the games in the summer on the radio, on the porch, laying in the sun. I learned more about baseball with my ears than with my eyes. I learned to imagine the heroics being acted out in high drama on the grassy stage. I learned to appreciate the artistry and beauty of the game inside my head.
- A trip to Yankee Stadium with my aunt, uncle, cousins, to watch the Sox play New York. My dad bet my Long Island uncle that Boston would win, and we did. I was 12.
- In my first year of high school, the Sox made it to the World Series against the NY Mets. It was 1986, and I was 13. I stayed up late to watch, and the whole of New England was glued to the television. We were one out away from winning the title in Game Six. Champagne corks were popped. A routine groundball headed up the first base line to Bill Buckner. It should’ve been over with in seconds. Instead, the groundball hopped through his legs, into the outfield, into history, into infamy. Runs scored and we lost Game 6, and went on to lose Game 7. I’ve felt sorry for Bill Buckner ever since.
- In my early 20s, all five of us siblings got together and took Mum to Fenway for Mother’s Day in May. It was freezing and drizzling and our seats were terrible, and she loved every second of it. This became our annual Mother’s Day tradition.
- The Sox won the American League East in 1988 and 1990. I remember them getting swept by the Oakland A’s both times. I remember hating Jose Canseco.
- In 1999, we were in the ALDS against the Cleveland Indians. We had clawed our way back from being two games down to tie the series. I remember Game 5, where Pedro Martinez came in as a complete surprise from the bullpen with an injured back, and threw six no-hit innings which took your breath away. Pedro would become a Boston legend from that day forward.
- Following the 2003 ALCS over the internet, from my little room in my little flat in Peckham, London. The series was tied 3-3. The day of Game 7, I was in Paris, trying to sort out my work permit, which was slipping through my fingers. On my way back to London, I was detained at Immigration for 3 hours, stripped of my passport, and informed I would have to leave the UK immediately, possibly never to return. I was finally allowed back to my flat, shattered and distraught, at 1 am. I tuned into the internet feed of the ballgame, praying for some sort of redemption on what was arguably the worst day of my life. Pedro Martinez and Roger Clemens were pitching, but by the top of the 8th inning, the Sox had a 5-2 lead. Everyone expected Pedro’s work was done. But he came back to pitch in the bottom of the inning, and before you knew it, the Yankees had tied the game. It was 5 am. I’d been awake for 24 hours straight, and suddenly realised I could not stand to listen to the rest of the game. I was scared and alone and exhausted, and drained of every emotion possible, and the possibility of facing another devastating blow was just too much. I remember switching off my computer, knowing that if the Sox managed to pull off a win, my family would call and wake me up to celebrate, and that if the Sox lost, I would deal with the heartache and disappointment in the morning. I did not get a call from my family that night, and awoke in the morning to the sad news of yet another bitter defeat. No one understood my grief, and I never felt more alone.
- On our second date, Jonno and I broached the weighty topic of baseball. I remember thinking right then, that I had found a soulmate. I’ve found a partner for the other love of my life, and he and I will follow the Sox together, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. No matter what happens, I will have someone to celebrate or commiserate with. No matter what happens, I will have someone who understands. No matter what happens, I have someone by my side for the ride.
I will remember tonight. Tonight, when dreams everywhere came true. When my team became the champions they were always meant to be. Fulfilling a destiny, inexorably bound to be theirs. Performing their craft with a joy and bumbling grace I’ve never before seen them exude. Playing for the love of the game. This is why I love baseball. This is why I love the Red Sox.
I will remember this.
field of dreams
Red Sox fandom is a lot like a religion. Most people are fans by birth or family tradition, but as adults, they must choose to make the difficult commitment for themselves. Because it is downright hard to be a Sox fan. The moments of gratification are few and far between. There’s no reward, no glory. There’s not much history of success or achievement to sustain you during the interminable droughts. There are many, many moments where the painful disappointment is sharply acute. There are many, many moments when your faith is sorely tested, your patience reaches its limits, and you decide it is no longer worth it.
For some, this spells the end of their love affair with the sox. For the rest, this is just the beginning.
To be a Sox fan means to live much of your life on the edge – poised at the brink of both success and failure. The gleaming brass ring always tantalisingly just out of reach as you ride the carousel, year after year, battered and bruised from the tumbles off the horse.
But we get back on, again and again. The whole while, asking ourselves why. Questioning our own obvious lack of sanity. Wondering when our steadfastness, our unwavering devotion, will be rewarded. Wondering when it will all make sense, in the grand scheme of the universe. Believing that there is some higher purpose, there is a reason for it all, even if it remains a mystery to us.
Our faith is a faith of mysteries. There are mysteries in our lore, and legends which are passed down through our history. Family stories which are instrumental in building generational legacies. Over the years, our experiences will only serve to futher illustrate the questions we cannot answer, the uncertainties we grapple with in heart and mind. Over time, if we cannot make our peace with them, we at least learn to live with them.
And eventually, we no longer remember a time when we questioned. We believe, simply because we have always believed.
The Red sox are not a team for the faint of heart. And perhaps, that is as it should be. If being a sox fan were easy, there would be no appreciation for the moments which do come.
And there are moments. Moments which sear themselves in your memory, all the sweeter for their rarity. Moments which become indelibly inked in your heart, and appear like manna from heaven when you least expect it. Moments which unite us in joy, in bright and shining contrast to a backdrop of companionable misery. Moments which are sparkling and precious and of incomparable value, of indescribable happiness – their worth cannot be measured.
Our belief is founded in moments like these. We *live* for moments like these.
And the biggest and brightest moment of all could happen tonight.
one game at a time
tonight, I will once again take my 10 pm nap, wake up in time to turn on the television at 1 am with a red bull in hand, try mightily to put away all notion of superstition and jinxes, try to breathe normally, not scream, and urge my beloved red sox on to one more victory with every ounce of my being.
i’m still taking it one game at a time. I haven’t bought a bottle of champagne just yet. i’m trying to stay focussed, and suppress any unbridled optimism from bubbling over.
but every once in a while, a rogue thought will burst through to the front of my brain. it’s the same thought every time, and i try to dismiss it as quickly as it surfaces.
“what if…” are some dangerous words.
don’t get me wrong. i *know* we can win this thing. i think this just might be the year.
but the “what ifs” are just too overwhelming to contemplate. just thinking about the possibility, or imagining the moment, can bring me to the verge of tears. the immense joy of victory finally attained, combined with the flood of sweet relief at freedom from “the curse”… it’s too much. right now, the idea of it all is just too much.
i’ll try (ineffectually) to put it all into words, when the time finally comes.
for now, it’s just game 3.
for now, it’s just too much.
red sox reading pleasure: why this is so important to so many – generations of fans hold their collective breath
sleep in november
this is where the full on insanity starts.
it takes a special kind of crazy to be a sox fan abroad, in london. it means drastically altered sleep patterns, so you can stay up til 5 am every evening. it means hour upon hour of internet research, to try to stay on top of what’s happening, and attempt to be a part of the larger community. it means transatlantic phone calls to rehash the events with family and friends. it means adjusting to the fact that no one here will *truly* understand your passion for this game, this team. you try to draw analogies… but can they really comprehend the idea of being an arsenal or man united fan in the face of 86 years of disappointment?
it’s nothing they can relate to, and there’s nothing worse than being completely overjoyed… and being alone in your elation. it’s even worse knowing you are missing out on the festivities and fervor back home.
but when they win it all, it will all be worth it. this is what you keep telling yourself. you tell yourself you can sleep in november, knowing that if you miss out, you’ll be kicking yourself for another 86 years.
game 2 tonight, and I’m off to take a nap.
the beginning
Redemption. Retribution. Karma. Payback. Call it what you will.
I call it an affirmation of faith, a just vindication that the years of unwavering support through heartache after heartache, were not in vain. Victory would be ours, in the end.
The nerd finally got the homecoming queen. Charlie Brown finally kicked the football. The frog was kissed into a prince.
The only thing which could possibly be more emotionally satisfying would be if it were possible to beat the Yankees in the world Series. To come back after what happened last year in Game 7 (I don’t know of a single sox fan who didn’t shed a tear that night), to come back after what happened in the first three games of this playoff run (i don’t know of a single fan who didn’t cringe in abject humiliation at the 19-8 score) … this is definitely the single most satisfying moment in my 30+ years of Sox fandom, and I wager most other fans would say the exact same thing.
I call it the most important Boston Sporting Moment of my lifetime (Of course, when we win the Series, I might retract that statement…)
Call it what you will. I call it the beginning.
the heroes of our own story
ever meet a born and bred bostonian? then you’l know that there are few fans more passionately die hard, than those of red sox nation.
sox fans are all about history. long memories of bitter defeat, legendary myths of fame and curse, deep seated rivalry which is passed down through the generations, inherited by blood and birth.
the rivalry with the yankees? well, it’s hard to understand unless you’ve lived it all your life. statistically, it makes no sense. emotionally, it’s an albatross to suffer year after year. and so we explain it through ghost stories and superstition. we rationalise it through baseball gods and fate. it’s part religion, part mental disorder, wholly defying any logic.
we are truly schizophrenic that way, being always of two minds: pure blind faith, and a sense of doom.
i admit to having been among the worst of them. i have sat stonelike, hour after hour during games, convinced that to even breathe or blink defferently would jinx my beloved team. and when my hypotheses held true, the rituals and rites became even further ingrained. and when they didn’t hold true, i chalked it up to luck or ju-ju or mysticism.
but a strange and unfamiliar belief has begun to take hold of me recently, in fact, only over the last three games. it’s as foreign to me as an alien language, or perhaps the rules of cricket.
it’s the small, but steadily growing belief that we make our own fate, the novel concept that we create our own luck, and even the shocking thought that we are as good as anyone else.
sox fans everywhere would gasp at these blasphemous words, and scream at me that I am tempting fate, much the way pedro martinez did when he scoffingly said he would drill babe ruth in the ass. (and as proof, look what happened *then*!)
but here’s the truth, in sum:
all streaks, both good and bad, must end sometime.
all games have a loser *and* a winner.
all history is past tense.
and so, with the series on the line tonight, playing one game against our hated enemies for a shot at all the marbles, i dare to believe that we can win.
not because we’ve reversed a curse – but because we are red sox nation. and we can be the heroes of our own story, if we only let ourselves.
flying in the face of logic, history… and some would say fate
I’ve been here before.
The swarms of butterflies in the stomach, the inability to sit still, nerves worn close to the skin. Many might say it was foolish to get so worked up over a game – but as children, we spend some formative years, watching those players who would be our giants. And they are special. Attachments develop (it would not be too strong to say bonds) with the heroes on the field, in whose place, you imagine yourself.
They do what we wish we could, and they excel in ways we can’t. They act out epic dramas in worlds circumscribed by known rules, where achievement is measured through hard work and dedication to honing one’s skill. They wear our passions on their sleeve, in good games and bad.
They are our surrogates for our own dreams, in ways both big and small.
And when they stand on the edge of achieving history, of becoming, for a moment which will be frozen for all of time, recognised as the greatest champions of the sport, *we are right there with them*. breath for breath, swing for swing. it’s not overstating the case. They are playing for us, and we are playing with them.
Tying your emotions to the fate of hometown team is risky, no doubt. Inevitably, we try to protect ourselves from the possibility of heartbreak. After all, games are defined by both winners and losers. But doing so only dampens the experience of what sport is all about. Dreams, passions, dramas, and heroes.
After all, only when you know where the bottom of the mountain lies, can you truly experience the thrill of the most dizzying heights. And the heights are there to be scaled.
In the end, one team has to win it all. And it could very well be yours.
You gotta believe.
nicola jane heads home
nicola leaves today to go home to new zealand for good. she had her blowout leaving do last night.
i met nick when i first started working at the council. we started taking cigarette breaks together, hanging out at the common during our lunch hours. she wanted to travel, i wanted to travel, and even though we didn’t know each other well, at some point we decided to take a trip to brussels and amsterdam. the trip was fabulously fun – i discovered nick is happy as a clam, as long as she’s kept well-fed and empty bladdered; nick discovered i get paranoid on too many mushrooms. from that auspicious start, the bonds of friendship were formed.
over the course of the next year, we would help each other over broken hearts, help each other adjust to life in london, party and dance and have adventures (both domestic and international), find (or both be forcibly introduced to) new loves, cope with dramas big and small – knowing all the while that we were eventually destined to go our separate ways.
although i don’t say goodbyes, i am grateful for the time we had here, and know that we will we will have fun together again, some other place, some other time. Perhaps we will meet up with our husbands and our babies, and compare recipes and parenting tips. Or maybe we will be puzzling over maps, pretending we are *not* lost, in some country we don’t know anything about, laughing because we can’t speak the language.
til then…
sticking it to tha man
I have here in my hot little hands, one gin-you-wine, cer-tee-friable, 100% pure, finest grade Colombian absentee ballot.
are you jealous?
also – debate number 3 is tonight.
if you think none of this matters, here’s an email I received recently:
> > > > The women were innocent and defenseless. And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden’s blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of “obstructing sidewalk traffic.”They beat Lucy Burn, chained her hands to the cell
bars above her head and left her hanging for the night,
bleeding and gasping for air. They hurled Dora Lewis
into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and
knocked her out cold. Her cell mate, Alice Cosu,
thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack.
Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing,
dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and
kicking the women.Thus unfolded the “Night of Terror” on Nov. 15,
1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in
Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the
suffragists imprisoned there because they dared
to picket Woodrow Wilson’s White House for the
right to vote.For weeks, the women’s only water came from an open
pail. Their food–all of it colorless slop–was infested
with worms. When one of the leaders, Alice Paul,
embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair,
forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her
until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks
until word was smuggled out to the press.So, refresh my memory. Some women won’t vote this
year because–why, exactly? We have carpool duties?
We have to get to work? Our vote doesn’t matter?
It’s raining?Last week, I went to a sparsely attended screening
of HBO’s new movie “Iron Jawed Angels.” It is a
graphic depiction of the battle these women waged
so that I could pull the curtain at the polling
booth and have my say.I am ashamed to say I needed the reminder.
All these years later, voter registration is still
my passion. But the actual act of voting had become
less personal for me, more rote. Frankly, voting often
felt more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes
it was inconvenient.My friend Wendy, who is my age and studied women’s
history, saw the HBO movie, too. When she stopped by
my desk to talk about it, she looked angry. She was–with
herself. “One thought kept coming back to me as I
watched that movie,” she said. “What would those women
think of the way I use–or don’t use–my right to vote?
All of us take it for granted now, not just younger women,
but those of us who did seek to learn.” The right to vote,
she said, had become valuable to her “all over again.”I wish all history, social studies and
government teachers would include the movie in their
curriculum… we are not voting in the numbers that we should be,
and I think a little shock therapy is in order.It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try
to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that
she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring
to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said,
and brave. That didn’t make her crazy. The doctor admonished
the men: “Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.”
> > > >
woman, man, black, latino… whoever you are, and whatever group you belong to, *someone fought courageously on your behalf for the right to vote*
don’t let it be in vain.
rome again, rome again, jiggety-jog
Buongiorno!
Rome was great. Getting to Stansted was a flipping mission at 3:30 in the morning, and then the bus from Ciampino to Rome central had problems (“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you! The bus is broken!” Perhaps, “surprise” was not quite the word he intended), but we finally got there.
We saw quite a lot – I even saw a few things I missed last time. Headed down to Piazza Venezia, walked through the Forum, did the Colosseum, went and checked into the hotel (had a little rest – it was very hot, and we walked a lot) went to the Trevi Fountain, had some snacks and drinks (you’ve got to love the toasted sandwich – even though it was such a struggle every time to get them to take the cheese out , “senza fromaggio! solo prosciutto! no mozzarella!”) some gelati (my big discovery of the trip – a place which had gelati made with soy milk! how happy was I!?!?!), headed over to the Pantheon, had some more drinks, went to the Campo dei Fiore for dinner at my favourite little wine bar and more drinks (mmm, the owner recommends the best wines, and I had smoked tuna with capers and oranges) then went back to the square for more drinks and people-watching.
Had a fuzzy head the next morning, but we got up early and got espresso at a little bar, then went out to the Vatican – saw the basilica and even caught the Pope giving his Sunday address from the window! (Being the polite people we are, we waved back) Then went to hit the Sistine Chapel, but the stoopid museum was closed, so we went down to Castel Sant’angolo and wandered around the other side of the river, had some lunch, then went to the Spanish Steps. Bought some limoncello, and then it was time to head to the airport!
The flight home was supposed to get in at 11:20, and got in at 11:40. The line for non-EU immigration was a 45 minute torture of waiting, and I am cranky, and know we have a hour’s drive home after this. J and I decided to go separately, as last time we went up together and the woman wanted to be a hardnose, and even asked J how he managed to qualify for permanent residency! I am nervous (as I am every time now) but am trying to make light of it. J goes up to one counter, I go up to another. I smile, hand over my passport, the woman glances at it, swipes it through the computer – and frowns. She starts paging through, and asks sternly, “Have you had any trouble with Immigration before?” I give the breezy version, “No, I was here on a blue card, and tried to apply for a work permit while I was in the country, only to be find out I had to go home and reapply, which I did.” I try to sound casual, but I can feel myself starting to turn red and sweat. She walks over to a supervisor with my passport. They examine and consult. She comes back to the desk after a few minutes. For a split second, I am hopeful she will hand me my passport and I’ll be on my way. Instead, she says, “We’re going to have to make a few enquiries. Please have a seat over there.”
My stomach hits the floor, and I stumble blindly over to the seats in horrified disbelief. Flashbacks of being detained, humiliated, and interrogated in Paris start playing in my head, and I half-seriously wonder if I am caught in some sort of bad dream. I can see J standing on the other side of the desks, looking at me with a question mark on his face, and it is all I can do to suppress the hysteria I feel rising up in me like a wave, as I start to remember being deported, summarily being forced to leave my job, my flat, my friends, my belongings behind, with no idea if I would ever be back. Being trapped back in Boston with no work, no place to live, no possessions, and no control over anything going on. I start to panic – what if they won’t let me back in? What if I have to leave again? What if I lose the life I worked so hard to get back? What if I am separated from J?
I’m sitting there for what seems like hours, praying fervently. These scenarios, which would have seemed so inconceivable, had I not actually already been through them, keep replaying themselves in my head, and all I can think is that I can’t believe this nightmare is happening all over again. I am fighting back tears and nausea and hoping I am not going to be sick on the floor. My hands are shaking, and everything is moving in slow motion, and there is a horrible sense of deja-vu, where I know something very bad is happening, but I don’t know exactly what, and I have no power to stop it, or even explain what a huge mistake this all is.
Time passes. 20 minutes roll by.
Finally the supervisor comes back with some forms and my passport, and huddles with the desk officer. I am summoned back to the desk. The officer says something amounting to my previous file coming up when my passport is read by the computer, and that since I’ve re-entered the country several times since my work permit was issued, it shouldn’t show up any more, and the file will be updated so this shouldn’t happen again. I mumble some words of thanks, and head through the clearance area, walk through customs, buy a pack of cigarettes at the news-stand, and head outside, where I light up, and immediately lose all control. I am absolutely beside myself, sobbing, clinging to J, blubbering nonsensically.
I seriously thought the worst was going to happen – again. And ironically enough, it’s almost exactly a year since the deportation.
I am never leaving the UK again until we are married.
In any case, the photos are here
entertaining election errata – noodles, tattoos, boo boos
because if you’re like me, you *really* need a laugh right about now.
a vote for kerry is a vote for noodles: michael moore lands in hot water
a vote for kerry is a vote for tattoos: the ultimate bumper-sticker
a vote for cheney is a vote for kerry: cheney commits a big freudian boo boo
where there’s smoke… there are no bloody cigarettes, dammit!
i quit smoking.
yes, you read right. I quit. not, “I’m trying to quit,” or, “i’m going to try to quit.” Past tense. fait accompli. To quote yoda, “do. or do not. there is no try.”
which makes it all sound so easy. In reality, if it were that easy, this would not be the third time I have quit. I have, in fact, done ths twice before.
The first time I quit, I had only been smoking for 3 years. I consciously (some would say self-destructively) took smoking up at the ripe old age of 19, when I was well and truly old enough to know better, and it’s probably no coincidence that I also had blue hair and a pierced nipple. What can I say, I was a late bloomer when it came to rebellion, and i took up smoking with a vengeance, no half-ways about it. I made up in enthusiasm what I lacked in gravel-throated experience.
And it was great. It got me through the awkward years of finding my way in new york, where i wasn’t sure what i was doing, or who i was doing it with. when I was old enough to be considered an adult, but too young to be taken seriously. it lent me gravitas in a city where being noticed takes supreme feats of effort, and where acting bored and jaded is a mark of sophistication. It passed the time waiting in bars for friends, attending bad art exhibitions, coffee breaks at minimum wage jobs.
I cultivated a sense of ennui, to hide my naked fear at being thought inexperienced/shy/dorky. Cigarettes were a critical prop in the facade.
Eventually, however, I got tired of *having* to smoke. I got tired of the chronic bronchitis which guaranteed me being given wide berth on the subway and necessitated sleeping in an upright position. I got tired of spending my meagre salary on pack after pack of cigarettes, or worse, “bumming” off friends. I got tired of standing in the rain/snow/sleet, pretending I was enjoying myself, rather than merely staving off a nic fit.
So I quit, cold turkey. My then-husband still smoked in front of me, trying to taunt and sabotage. Within 2 weeks I became unemployed and had to write my exams to finish my ba degree. A week later, my husband lost his job. I literally had smoking dreams, where I woke up pulling mightily on an invisible cigarette, full of guilt, the dream cigarette was so real and enjoyable. One memorable and distressed evening, I walked around for several hours with a cigarette in one hand, and a lighter in the other. And I still stayed quit.
I stayed quit for 7 years.
And then one day, I thought I could have *just one*. Which is how it starts for all of us addicts – smokers, alcoholics, shoplifters, heroin users. Whatever your fix, it always starts with one.
I wanted to be a non-addict. I wanted to be that person who has the occassional cig while they’re drinking wine, or has a cigar on holidays and special events. I wanted to have control. I refused to admit that I had a problem. For whatever reason, I can have exactly 2 sips of wine, and put the glass down – but I can’t have two puffs of a smoke and throw it away. I can go a whole 12 hour plane ride without craving heroin, but my hands tremble lighting a cigarette after they let me through immigration.
It’s a crutch – something to do when you’re bored, or hungry, or tired, or awkward, or upset. It’s not that I don’t need the crutch, because in a way, we all do. We all use a little something to prop ourselves up now and again – chocolate, a drink, shopping, chewed fingernails. We all have them, they’re just not all as easily identifiable as a lit cigarette.
And I guess I’ll just have learn to use a glass of wine instead.
