The Impulse points just keep comin' (movies & relatives)

I'm one day shy of 2 weeks without smoking. But The Impulse points keep coming. I'm still walking into scenarios in which my body is accustomed to lighting up, and it sucker punches me, still, each time.

I went to the movies for the first time since quitting, and I would always have to suck down a cig before entering and getting my ticket ripped. (It just occurred to me what a bummer it must be for whoever is stuck sitting next to my smoke-stinkey ass in the theatre!). After 2 hours, give or take, it was always so good to spark one up immediately after emerging from the theatre.

Man, I can taste/smell/feel it now!

There is this bogus feeling of having earned it by having sat so patiently for an entire movie stifling the urge to smoke; almost as if one were the hero of the movie, and deserves the reward afterward.

Also for the first time since quiting, I went to a modest family gathering. There, the norm was for a brother and I to regularly step out to the back porch for one-on-one conversation over a smoke (which he would refer to as a union meeting).

Now in both of these situations, I was not tempted to smoke by seeing and smelling others doing so; People milling about outside the theatre, puffing away, or my brother doing so next to me.

No, it was The Impulse; the physiological/psychological association of my body chemistry with those times, those sequences of events. It was an ingrained, programmed routine, in which smoking was an intregal part of -- even if these events came along every 3 months or so, rather than on a daily basis.


Another note on the cinema experience: Once a movie starts, I never get up to leave to do anything, if I can possibly help it. Not to pee, not to smoke, not to get a snack or drink. Although I did miss a climactic scene of the last Indiana Jones movie, because I had to piss so bad, it was physically painful to keep holding it. I really didn't want to leave the theatre, but it was a genuine emergency. And the movie kinda sucked anyway, so I didn't feel bad about missing the scene for more than a few minutes afterwards.

Anyway, since this was the first time going to the movies since I quit, or rather, the first time I went since I started my new habit of using nicotine lozenges, I did not prepare. It should have been easy, but I just didn't take it seriously enough.

All I needed to do was bring in some kind of cup to spit the nicotine teeming saliva accumulation into. This is a regular part of the process of ingesting the lozenges, so I knew a cup would come in handy.

But, ya know, it just seemed like a hassle. Where would I get a cup? I had a soda from a nearby restaurant, but they prohibited me from taking it into the theatre. So, then I could go ask for one at the consession stand. But then, I'd have to wait in line, which are usually long, only to have to explain that I only need an empty cup. This would spark the suspicion that I would be trying to obtain an empty cup for free, only to return for a "refill" to get a free soda. I don't want to pay for the damn cup. I imagine that the coorporate accounting department figures an amount to charge for an empty cup based on the frequency of soda sold, compared to soda inventory, etc. blah blah blah. I just didn't want to deal with it.

And, I certainly am not going to pick one out of the trash. It really wouldn't matter, because I would be spitting into the cup, rather than drinking out of it. But then, my lips often do touch whatever cup I take on as a disposable spitoon. And besides, why gross out my female companion more than I already do by this basic process?

So...I said "f**k it," and enjoyed the movie, and held out on popping in a lozenge as long as I felt comfortable doing so. Of course, I gave in about 3/4-the-way-through. I inserted one in my mouth, and stifled the urge to swallow as my mouth began teeming with the familiar foamy, saliva/nicotine juice.

Of course, the movie went on longer than I anticipated. A few times when I thought the credits would roll, a forgotten enemy would suprise attack, or another sub-epilogue would begin. My mouth was filling up to the point where my cheeks would be visibly puffed out, were the house lights to kick on.

The only alternative to holding it in was to eject the voluminous gob from my mouth onto the floor of the theatre. The theatre was scantily occupied, and the entire rest of the row to my left, including the row fore and aft, were unoccupied, so I could certainly get away with it unnoticed. But my conscience prevented me.

I figured on the way out I could spit it out in a trash can, but then, I didn't want anyone to see me, like my fellow exiting moviegoers, or the cleanup guy standing right next to the trash can. I would just feel like an a**hole. So, I figured it could wait until I got to the bathroom.

My wife made a joking speculation about the title of a possible sequel to the movie, and I instantly formed a title of my own in an attempted one-up reponse. But, if I opened my mouth to speak it, I would have gone Cujo and made an embarrassing, disgusting mess all over the front of my clothes, chin to toe.

So my little joke had to wait, as I gestured to her with a raised finger and inflated cheeks, that I must hold my tongue.

After the walk from the aisle, to the hall, to the big hall, to the bathroom, peeing, relinquishing my foamy burden, and rejoining her in the hall, the potency of my joke diminished significantly.

I told her my joke sequel title, but after the wait, both of us silently agreed that I had not one-upped hers.

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On a serious note:

Luckily, my wife tolerates the unsavory, attendant idiosyncrasies of nicotine lozenge use. To do so, one must keep in mind that it is for the greater, long term good.

Watching one's betrothed spitting mouthfuls of foam on a regular basis for a couple/few months becomes quite tolerable compared to the concept of becoming a lung cancer widow in one's, say, 50's.