Pulling Myself Together

I?d like to have a cigarette tonight. Just one. Ten minutes of satisfaction, of letting my guard down, of doing whatever the heck I want to do at any particular moment. A cigarette tonight, a beer right now, and maybe I won?t go jogging tomorrow. Shouldn?t be that big a crisis, right?

Except I quit smoking a month ago. For the second time in a year. And I really don?t feel like quitting smoking all over again tomorrow.

And if I have a beer right now, it might help me have more fun while I write this, but it also might make me feel tired in an hour or so, and, at any rate, it will definitely make the beers I have at the barbecue tonight seem a bit less special.

And if I don?t go jogging tomorrow, I?ll probably skip out the next day, and once my guard is down I?ll probably go back to eating nothing but cheeseburgers and pizza.

In just a few weeks I?ll be a regular smoker again, I?ll eat nothing but crap, and I?ll play a whole lot of video games. Because deep down, that?s all I really want to do. Oh, sure, I?d like to have a higher-paying job and rippling abdominal muscles. I?d like to write big-time Hollywood screenplays and cast myself as the lead actor, too.

Just not right now. Heck, I don?t even feel like writing this stuff right now.

The trouble is, when I?m sitting on the patio at my girlfriend?s place in a few hours, I?m going to want to have written a first draft of this piece. A couple of weeks from now, if it?s actually hot enough to swim, I?m going to wish that I?d been jogging every day. And if I let myself become a regular smoker again, I won?t really enjoy any of the cigarettes I smoke. Very soon after that, I?ll start feeling miserable.

Because doing what I want to do makes me miserable. But not doing the things I want to do takes so much effort.