This is Our Last Goodbye

My first Last Cigarette was smoked directly outside of a hypnotherapist-to-the-stars' office in Manhattan in 2004. Joined by two of my favorite, chain smoking friends, we jokingly mourned our soon-to-be lost connection of addiction and oral fixation. I felt hopeful and resolved and was grateful for my friends' support.

If I am only counting successful attempts and considering anything past three months successful (because let's face it, listing every Last Cigarette attempt over the past 10 years would be tedious even for me, and I'm sort of convinced that the minutiae of my life is riveting), then my next Last Cigarette was had outside a hotel in Seattle in February 2010, alone after wine and sushi with Synergy, who had retreated to our shared room to prepare for bed. I had never met Synergy in-the-flesh before (yay, internet!), had never been to Seattle before. I was on the precipice of a pretty big life change, too, so that one felt charged and beautiful.

The most recent Last Cigarette was smoked in late fall 2011, in a canyon along the Big Thompson River, right outside of Loveland. It was dark and I was alone and could hear the slap of the water against the riverbed, could see a million stars with clarity. That one seemed profound and so final. And here I am again.

I like ceremony and tend to make more of every moment than is probably necessary. So last night, I consulted with Synergy and decided to dress warmly and sit outside, alternately on the swing set and my park bench. In the dark, a cup of strong coffee and the Sex Pistol's version of My Way on my iPod. It was near-perfect. Hopefully, I'll never top it.