Well, it finally happened.  The last person that didn't know I was smoking, who should have been the first person who knew, now knows.

It wasn't so much on purpose that my wife found out.  I had a day off, which meant that I either had to go out somewhere to smoke or find an excuse to go outside long enough to burn one.  I had the perfect excuse: her car needed a new washer fluid motor.  That bought me enough time to get through two glorious smokes.

When I came in, she met me with, "Dude, you smell like you've been smoking!"  Not wanting to admit it, but suspecting that she suspected, I stuck my tongue out at her and gave a full "pbpbpbpbpbpbpbpbpbp".

Later on, we all hopped in the car and drove the half hour to my store (where else would I go on my day off but work?) to go shopping.  Along the way I'm thinking, she suspects, I know she does, if I don't admit it and she catches me later, she's going to be pissed because I knew she knew.  Or, she's going to wait for a great pissed off moment and bomb me with it in a argument.  Or she's just waiting for me to tell her so we can have that argument now.  Choices, choices, choices.

So I finally got up the nerve to tell her.

"So, what if I smelled like I had been smoking earlier because I had been smoking?"

"That would be bad.  Were you?"

"Yes."

I ended up telling her how long I had done so and that I wanted to quit.  She took it pretty well.  She even held my hand, in that "I love you, and we're in this together and I will help you" kind of way.

Yeah, that wasn't exactly how it turned out.

I started talking about it here and there, saying that I did this, or I ran out, yadda yadda, trying to support my position that I was working towards quitting.  What do I get back?  Snip snip snip!

Whatever.

The best part?  She didn't suspect.

I am footfknmaster, and since the kid's going to bed, I'm going to watch Pulp Fiction.