Being a mental patient and being a failure are a matched pair. Cigarette smoking was so continual that everyone knew about it. Like decades of bad weather, I forgot to look for the sunshine. Snuff seemed to be a civilized alternative. Okay. Everything that smoking tried, to take me back to the bad old days, failed. And snuff delivered.
My boss discovered that I dipped. He was concerned. A great guy, with a wayward sense of humor, was unusually sober about my habit. I found that I had to sneak a pinch. Something was wrong.
On vacation, I had to refuse fine dining because there was tobacco in my mouth. On a cruise ship, putting your fingers in your face is too unsanitary to mention. I compromised.
I felt pretty successful. I went from two packs a day to two cans a week. There was some respect. But I understood sooner or later my doctor or dentist would give me a death sentence. I figured that when the day arrived, I would buy nicotine gum and everything would be ducky.
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Our health insurance plan gave a big rate increase to all tobacco users. I quit the next day.
Now, I didn’t want to say anything, but I haven’t been nicotine-free. I certainly did use the leading brand of 2 milligram gum. I followed label directions in detail. But I learned to respect you guys and gals who have struggled with the disease. This quit is all about you. Thank you, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay with you.