Wow. I spent last night at a long, relaxing lakeside photo shoot with Justin Timberlake somwhere north of Temagami. Did you know his body is much more cut in person? It's especially obvious when he's been dipped in the cool waters of a northern Ontario lake, providing ample moisture for the bright sun overhead to shine off his rippled, golden abdominals.
We needed some designer pieces for the shoot, so I was sent off to Dior's Hedi Slimane to seek out the appropriate items. Not surprisingly, his studio was crammed with bolt after bolt of black fabric in every imaginable sheen and texture. That it looked like a junky, overcrowded used clothing store in Kensington Market with only Hedi running the show was, however, a tad unexpected. I found myself trying on a number of slim-cut dinner jackets while telling Hedi about the travails of quitting smoking.
"Yeah, so I'm on the Patch, but I haven't been leaving it on all day. The package said you can leave it on for 24 hours, but apparently leaving it on at night can give you crazy dreams, so I've been taking it off before bed. It's not like I ever smoked in my sleep anyway, right?"
I laughed gaily, but stopped when I noticed Hedi looking derisively at my feet.
Although I don't recall trying on any trousers, I somehow managed to misplace my shoes. I searched the dressing room and surrounding areas, and then ran out into the street barefoot. The bright summer day outside made me momentarily sun-blind after spending so long in the cramped, darkened studio.
Jump cut to New York, where I watched Boy George - or perhaps it was Alan Cumming? - hosting Saturday Night Live. Unfortunately, his tragic opening monologue failed to elicit a single laugh. First Taboo, then this. The poor thing. I was then whisked off to the post-monologue skit, in which I played one of Alec Baldwin's children. It was Christmas Eve, and me and my siblings were trying to convince our parents to open our presents right away instead of waiting until morning. Much hilarity ensued. The sketch concluded with me suggesting we simply smoke a joint instead of opening presents. Everyone agreed that this was a great idea so Mom, aka Amy Poehler, ran upstairs to get her stash. While looking for the rolling papers, I became distracted by one of those plastic tubes filled with icing that you use to write on birthday cakes. Seeing as it was filled with hot pink icing, I couldn't resist giving it a try on the nearest available surface and proceeded to write "Ho Ho Ho" on some wall panels next to the Christmas tree. I was concentrating very intently on getting the lettering just so when Amy returned from upstairs. She began reaming me out for suggesting she was a ho - never mind that I'd just frosted the walls in baker's graffiti - when I suddenly started awake. I look around in bewilderment for my cell phone to shut off the alarm, then realize there is no alarm.
Uh-oh.
I find my phone. 9:52am. Wonderful. I have eight minutes to get dressed and make the 15 minute journey by cab to work. I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and wait - what's this? I see something odd on my arm as I'm pulling on my shirt. It resembles a scratch-n-sniff sticker. Shit.
I fell asleep wearing the Patch.
I've never used the Patch before. I decided, rather impulsively, to quit smoking eleven days ago after seeing a British television programme called Honey We're Killing the Kids* at Shawn's place (I was visting him in Montreal for the weekend). Actually, the quitting was Shawn's suggestion. I sort of went along with it to be a good sport. Seeing as I'm kind of on a self-improvement kick anyway, the thinking was that it could help Shawn stick to quitting if he had a co-conspirator for support. And, you know, that for the same reason, I might really quit this time, too.
[*The television show, by the way, basically shows parents, with the aid of the lastest computer aging techniques, what their children, after participating in a battery of physical and psychological testing, will look like at age 40. After the "don't-fuck-with-me-this-is-for-your-own-good" reality-tv life advisor/bitch/doctor reveals these terrifying and monstrous images to them, the parents are given a four week plan they must implement in the hopes of getting their kids off the path of ugliness, malnutrition, and general despair onto one of health, success, and fulfillment. The parents, of course, are so ridden with guilt and self-loathing after seeing the ugliness they will be responsible for springing onto the world that they willingly submit to whatever suggestions the doctor lady makes. Usually this involves drastic things like: making sure the kids eat breakfast, monitoring their television watching, not letting them eat any sugary shit they can get their hands on anytime they feel like it, having dinner together at a dining table, making sure they go to bed on time, and spending time with them doing something other than watching television and eating crisps. After the plan is completed, the parents are shown the new, drastically improved, bright and shiny digital versions of their kids at 40, complete with smiles where there were once frowns, and the parents vow they will be better people and do right by their kids. I think they should show this programme to every single new parent everywhere. It was pretty eye-opening, not to mention scarier than The Exorcist.]
Typically, I am now on Day 12 of SmokeFree Living (with a brief lapse period at my birthday party last weekend consisting of about ten cigarettes) while Shawn had two cigarettes on Day 1 and resumed regular smoking habits on Day 2. So much for having a support buddy; I've been thrust into playing a role model, something, I've learned, I have far too much ego to do without filling up with gallons of hot air. Quick, someone find the understudy, I don't want to be here!
The Patch has proven to be very effective in making me not insane. Instead of a constant headache and hearing nattering voices in my head urging me to Kill, Kill Them All, I have been relatively bearable to be around. I do have occasional flashes of extreme irritability, but they pass fairly quickly, as do the cravings. And frankly, I had flashes of extreme irritability before I was a smoker, so it's hard to say which are the result of withdrawal and which are simply intrinsic to my effervescent personality.
On Day 9 I forgot to put on a patch in the morning and went to work. Around 1.30pm I was a hit with a craving that left me breathless. It was like being tossed off a mechanical bull into a pile of boulders. I popped a piece of gum into my mouth, tried to focus on all the work I had to do, and thought about how proud of me the non-smoking healthy guy I've been seeing for the past month will be if I get through this.
Not that I'm quitting for him (in fact, I'm not even sure the smoking bothered him enough to be a deal-breaker). But I'm going to grasp at any motivational straw I can find. As long as there's no coke around, it'll be helpful. I'm proud to say I made it through Day 9 untainted. Thinking of how god-awful the first one of the lapse tasted is also a useful tool.
But while the Patch may be keeping me sane during the day, after last night's Technicolor extravaganzas, I'm a little fearful of what havoc it may wreaking on my subconscious that I'm not aware of. And to think, that wasn't even the super-duper patch, but the 7mg, you're-almost-done baby patch (I ran out of the other ones and forgot to pick up more, okay?)
We needed some designer pieces for the shoot, so I was sent off to Dior's Hedi Slimane to seek out the appropriate items. Not surprisingly, his studio was crammed with bolt after bolt of black fabric in every imaginable sheen and texture. That it looked like a junky, overcrowded used clothing store in Kensington Market with only Hedi running the show was, however, a tad unexpected. I found myself trying on a number of slim-cut dinner jackets while telling Hedi about the travails of quitting smoking.
"Yeah, so I'm on the Patch, but I haven't been leaving it on all day. The package said you can leave it on for 24 hours, but apparently leaving it on at night can give you crazy dreams, so I've been taking it off before bed. It's not like I ever smoked in my sleep anyway, right?"
I laughed gaily, but stopped when I noticed Hedi looking derisively at my feet.
Although I don't recall trying on any trousers, I somehow managed to misplace my shoes. I searched the dressing room and surrounding areas, and then ran out into the street barefoot. The bright summer day outside made me momentarily sun-blind after spending so long in the cramped, darkened studio.
Jump cut to New York, where I watched Boy George - or perhaps it was Alan Cumming? - hosting Saturday Night Live. Unfortunately, his tragic opening monologue failed to elicit a single laugh. First Taboo, then this. The poor thing. I was then whisked off to the post-monologue skit, in which I played one of Alec Baldwin's children. It was Christmas Eve, and me and my siblings were trying to convince our parents to open our presents right away instead of waiting until morning. Much hilarity ensued. The sketch concluded with me suggesting we simply smoke a joint instead of opening presents. Everyone agreed that this was a great idea so Mom, aka Amy Poehler, ran upstairs to get her stash. While looking for the rolling papers, I became distracted by one of those plastic tubes filled with icing that you use to write on birthday cakes. Seeing as it was filled with hot pink icing, I couldn't resist giving it a try on the nearest available surface and proceeded to write "Ho Ho Ho" on some wall panels next to the Christmas tree. I was concentrating very intently on getting the lettering just so when Amy returned from upstairs. She began reaming me out for suggesting she was a ho - never mind that I'd just frosted the walls in baker's graffiti - when I suddenly started awake. I look around in bewilderment for my cell phone to shut off the alarm, then realize there is no alarm.
Uh-oh.
I find my phone. 9:52am. Wonderful. I have eight minutes to get dressed and make the 15 minute journey by cab to work. I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and wait - what's this? I see something odd on my arm as I'm pulling on my shirt. It resembles a scratch-n-sniff sticker. Shit.
I fell asleep wearing the Patch.
I've never used the Patch before. I decided, rather impulsively, to quit smoking eleven days ago after seeing a British television programme called Honey We're Killing the Kids* at Shawn's place (I was visting him in Montreal for the weekend). Actually, the quitting was Shawn's suggestion. I sort of went along with it to be a good sport. Seeing as I'm kind of on a self-improvement kick anyway, the thinking was that it could help Shawn stick to quitting if he had a co-conspirator for support. And, you know, that for the same reason, I might really quit this time, too.
[*The television show, by the way, basically shows parents, with the aid of the lastest computer aging techniques, what their children, after participating in a battery of physical and psychological testing, will look like at age 40. After the "don't-fuck-with-me-this-is-for-your-own-good" reality-tv life advisor/bitch/doctor reveals these terrifying and monstrous images to them, the parents are given a four week plan they must implement in the hopes of getting their kids off the path of ugliness, malnutrition, and general despair onto one of health, success, and fulfillment. The parents, of course, are so ridden with guilt and self-loathing after seeing the ugliness they will be responsible for springing onto the world that they willingly submit to whatever suggestions the doctor lady makes. Usually this involves drastic things like: making sure the kids eat breakfast, monitoring their television watching, not letting them eat any sugary shit they can get their hands on anytime they feel like it, having dinner together at a dining table, making sure they go to bed on time, and spending time with them doing something other than watching television and eating crisps. After the plan is completed, the parents are shown the new, drastically improved, bright and shiny digital versions of their kids at 40, complete with smiles where there were once frowns, and the parents vow they will be better people and do right by their kids. I think they should show this programme to every single new parent everywhere. It was pretty eye-opening, not to mention scarier than The Exorcist.]
Typically, I am now on Day 12 of SmokeFree Living (with a brief lapse period at my birthday party last weekend consisting of about ten cigarettes) while Shawn had two cigarettes on Day 1 and resumed regular smoking habits on Day 2. So much for having a support buddy; I've been thrust into playing a role model, something, I've learned, I have far too much ego to do without filling up with gallons of hot air. Quick, someone find the understudy, I don't want to be here!
The Patch has proven to be very effective in making me not insane. Instead of a constant headache and hearing nattering voices in my head urging me to Kill, Kill Them All, I have been relatively bearable to be around. I do have occasional flashes of extreme irritability, but they pass fairly quickly, as do the cravings. And frankly, I had flashes of extreme irritability before I was a smoker, so it's hard to say which are the result of withdrawal and which are simply intrinsic to my effervescent personality.
On Day 9 I forgot to put on a patch in the morning and went to work. Around 1.30pm I was a hit with a craving that left me breathless. It was like being tossed off a mechanical bull into a pile of boulders. I popped a piece of gum into my mouth, tried to focus on all the work I had to do, and thought about how proud of me the non-smoking healthy guy I've been seeing for the past month will be if I get through this.
Not that I'm quitting for him (in fact, I'm not even sure the smoking bothered him enough to be a deal-breaker). But I'm going to grasp at any motivational straw I can find. As long as there's no coke around, it'll be helpful. I'm proud to say I made it through Day 9 untainted. Thinking of how god-awful the first one of the lapse tasted is also a useful tool.
But while the Patch may be keeping me sane during the day, after last night's Technicolor extravaganzas, I'm a little fearful of what havoc it may wreaking on my subconscious that I'm not aware of. And to think, that wasn't even the super-duper patch, but the 7mg, you're-almost-done baby patch (I ran out of the other ones and forgot to pick up more, okay?)
Or maybe the Patch has nothing to do with it. Maybe that's what SmokeFree Living dreams are always like, it's just been so bloody long since I've had one that I've forgotten. Really, there are worse things than lounging lakeside with a wet Justin Timberlake and parading about in Dior jackets. Maybe I should start wearing the patch to bed every night. Although for that I need a louder alarm clock.
Do you think there's such a thing as an alarm gong?
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