But Where Do My Hands Go?

I quit smoking a week ago. I've been sort of fine with it, but I can't figure out what to do with my hands. Shove them in my pockets? Take up ASL? Go for this pose?

And there were all those other lovely uses for my cigarettes too. I could sneak out to the smoke hole to hang with the cool kids. They were the key to my escape strategy. "While spending the past hour trapped in this corner and listening to you soliloquize about your dissertation on the Freudian symbolism in Ibsen's play, Hedda Gabbler, was simply fascinating, I must excuse myself for a smoke." They were my comfort, my reward for surviving stress. Not to mention the extemporaneous haiku I traded them for one memorable night.

I do miss it.

Maybe I'll pretend I still smoke. I'll still get to hang with my favorite people as they puff away. I'll still have an excuse to flee parties. I just won't have the cigarette.