I quit smoking last year because, to my infinite surprise*, it’s really bad for you.
Smoking is an immediate experience of relaxation cloaked in nostalgic glamour.
I would smoke at night after work; listen to Rodrigo Amarante and look at the night lights.
A soft, beautiful way to kill yourself; I thought.
As it happens, it’s a soft, beautiful way to aggravate acid reflux and peptic ulcers as well.
My body really doesn’t respond well to self-destructive behaviour and being ill and in pain was the best way to get me to stop doing it.
Now exercise doesn’t feel anything like smoking. It is not enjoyable or slow or contributing to my eventual demise.
The music is also not to my taste.
I really don’t want to exercise with my friends because I will not look like a cool cat puffing death sticks outside a jazz joint. I’ll look like I look when I’m exercising. Like a graceless lump of disintegrating cartilage.
So I did this work-out today despite the fact that I am bleeding from my vagina and feeling very uncomfortable.
*Naturally I’m being ironic but when you’re depressed and anxious, smoking is the most socially acceptable form of self harm.