Panic and the NFL

It’s early July. We’re a few weeks away from the opening of NFL training camps, but for now, the football landscape is barren. Sure, the Canadians are doing something with rouge, and many other countries pretend that Euro 2016 is “football,” but we here in America know better. There is no football right now; there is no hockey, no basketball, and even baseball will be entering a break soon. This is truly the doldrums of the calendar. Heck, as I type, I’m watching the first round of the men’s 1500 meters trials for the US Olympic Track Team. I mean, these are desperate times. So I thought it would be fitting to put together a list of things to do and not do while we wait for the sweet relief of preseason football.

Do: Work, because you’ll want to have money to spend on beer at various sports bars during the football season.

Do not: Talk yourself into watching auto racing, as you’ll find yourself saying things like, “If Dale Junior takes a few rounds out, he could probably get out of turn three better” at which point you will realize your attraction for your first cousin.

Do: Reconnect with your spouse, as you’ve probably ignored your spouse since last August. Take him/her to dinner at Applebee’s or some other fine restaurant.

Do not: Spend your date night at Applebee’s in the bar, watching Wimbledon replays of the Mixed Doubles quarterfinals.

Do: Let your spouse know how much he/she means to you, because he/she will be the one you depend on to get through a 3:00 AM panic attack

Do not: Have a 3:00 AM panic attack if you can help it, which, if you are prone to panic attacks, you cannot.

See, here’s the thing about panic attacks. They happen to a certain percentage of the population, and they suck (the attacks, not the population). You will need support to get through them. Or heavy drugs. But support is probably better. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of a panic attack, here’s the usual timeline:

3:00 AM: You wake up suddenly, feeling something is wrong. You can breathe, but not normally. You hyperventilate. You jump out of bed (even if you are old and fat), and immediately turn on some lights. When your sleepy spouse wakes up and asks what’s wrong, you say, “I don’t know, but shit shit shit shit I just can’t I don’t know!” You might say some variation of this, but the message is the same.

3:01 AM: You run out of the bedroom and down the hall, turning on every light along the way. You seek solace in the living room, only to find nothing there. You run into the kitchen (again, turning on whatever lights are available) and think about running outside. Being clad in only your underwear is not a deterrent, but the fact that it’s dark outside is. Your spouse has now wandered into the kitchen with you, asking what’s wrong. You clench and unclench your fists, because you don’t know what else to do, and answer, “It’s all just not okay I can’t handle this I feel like I’m gonna die but I don’t know why.”

3:02 AM: As you just explained to your spouse, you feel like you’re gonna die, and you have no idea why. There’s an existential problem with your place in the world, and it’s causing you to doubt whether you can make it to 3:03 AM. The funny thing at this point is, you’re awake and fully aware that you’re freaking out. Your left brain (not really a thing, but let’s go with it) is saying, hey, you’re having a weird panic thing, but you’re okay. And overwhelmingly, the rest of your brain is saying, “Shut up shut up shut up I’m dying or something and I can’t stop feeling this way” and you understand, finally, that everything is truly hopeless.

3:05 AM: While you’re trying to focus on slowing your breathing and gripping a chair tightly, your spouse pours herself a glass of Fresca and offers you some. (She likes Fresca because of the taste and not because of “Caddyshack” so at this point, we’ll stop being gender-neutral and refer to the spouse as “she.”) You decline the Fresca and pour yourself some water instead, and it doesn’t really help you, but at least you have something to focus on for about five seconds before you put down the glass of water and refocus on how you’re going to die.

3:15 AM: You’re trying to calm down, but it’s just not happening. You’re looking for an escape to…somewhere? There is no escape, you’re stuck where you are, and even though it’s not safe where you are, you  go with the devil you know and try to make things better. Your wife at this point is really worried and frustrated because she can’t figure out how to fix this. She would do literally anything to make you feel better, but there isn’t anything you want from her, other than to be present so you can hang on to the shred of humanity that you still believe in. You breathe, you grip, you look around for something to take this feeling away, but of course there isn’t anything other than your own brain that’s currently being a traitorous bastard.

3:20 AM: Your wife, at wits’ end, asks whether you want her to call someone for help. Oh good God no. The idea of a paramedic strapping you onto a gurney and into an ambulance is horrifying. You lie, and say things are starting to get a little better. You drink some water, and consciously try to slow your breathing, and start to fool yourself into thinking that, yeah, things are getting better.

3:25 AM: Your bladder suggests that it’s time for a bathroom visit. However, the bathroom is a relatively small room, and claustrophobia can make whatever this is infinitely worse. Your wife says she’ll go with you if you want and hang out while you pee/poop. You realize this is about 40 years too early for this, and say that, no, you’re gonna be fine.

3:27 AM: You head back to the bathroom, prepare to do some business, and realize that NO NOT YET IT’S STILL TERRIBLE. You stumble back into the well-lit kitchen, hyperventilate for a minute, and realize that you’re not ready for a solo bathroom trip. Your wife again wants to call for help; you grab her hands and beg her not to. Being hooked up to an IV sounds like the worst possible thing ever, and you try to impress upon your wife the importance of not picking up the phone.

3:30 AM: Your wife suggests some television, because taking your mind off your imminent destruction might be a good thing. Ok, head to the living room and fire up the boob (heh) tube. Neat, Saturday Night Live reruns are on. This will help.

3:32 AM: It doesn’t help. Not yet, anyway. You need to relieve yourself, and this desperation leads to dropping to one knee in the hallway. Yep, you’re at the low point. You’re Tebowing. And yet…as you drop your head, you start to perspire for some reason, and it feels kinda better. Your face is flush, and you feel physically wrong, but the sweating is somehow helping a little. Suddenly you realize you can relieve yourself (with the door open) and not die. That’s progress!

3:35 AM: With this new victory in hand, you’re ready to take on the world, which is to say, you can watch SNL reruns with your half-asleep wife.

3:45 AM: You chuckle. Things are really looking up.

3:50 AM: Your wife wants to know if you’re ready to try going back to bed. You say yes, since obviously everything’s okay now. Head down the hall, approach your side of the bed. And….no. There’s just no possible way. You’re going to die and the world’s going to end somehow.

3:51 AM: Back to SNL, lights blazing.

3:53 AM: Crap. this isn’t helping. Your breathing rate increases and everything that’s been tamped down is rising again.

3:55 AM: Drop to a knee on the carpet. For whatever reason, this helps a little.

4:00 AM: Breathing has returned to normal-ish. You stumble back to the couch and prepare for the next SNL rerun.

4:10 AM: Hey, this episode (none of which you remember) is kinda funny. Neat. In the meantime, your distracted brain is slowly returning to its normal state, whatever that is.

4:30 AM: Your wife asks if it’s okay if she returns to bed; you hesitate, and she correctly interprets this at “not yet please ok thanks.” You apologize to your wife for your abnormality for the tenth time. She’s cool about it, which somehow makes you feel worse.

4:45 AM: Your finally ready to try the sleep thing again. Turn off the TV and the lights, and nothing horrible happens. You still feel a little “out of body” or something, but at least you haven’t had to Tebow for a while.

4:50 AM: TV is on in the bedroom (you live in a fancy house with TVs in multiple rooms), and you slowly crawl into bed, anticipating the worst but hoping for the best (like a Browns fan).

5:00 AM: Your breathing has slowed to almost normal, and the blinds are showing the barest hint of sunrise. Sleep is actually possible, maybe.

6:00 AM: The alarm goes off. Another workday is on tap, and commerce don’t wait for crazy.

So anyway, football is coming soon. Don’t panic.