I had kind of a tough day yesterday. No real reason for it, exactly. I just had a lot of irrational anxiety that I felt building up inside all day long. Some random stuff had come up in reference to my dad’s estate over the course of the past week, and even after all these years, nothing sets me off like thinking about the mess my father made with the last few years of his life.
I’m almost to the age he was when things started coming apart on him. It weighs on me. Time has only helped so much to heal the wound.
It must be said, too, that I’ve let myself get a little too emotionally invested in this year’s Army-Navy game. Friends, I am not playing in this game. I know that there is nothing I can do to affect the outcome. And yet, here I am, completely bought in, knowing that if they win, I’ll be high as fuck, and if they lose, it’ll be a week or more before I shrug it off.
I hate that.
Its gonna affect more than just my emotional state, too. My little passion-project, As For Football, will do much, much better if they win. I think we’ve done an outstanding job this season managing interest in our product and in the team in general in a down year for Army Football. Still, the truth is that the team’s success will do more for us than we can do by ourselves, like it or not.
I mean, yeah, there’s such a thing as good writing about bad football. But it only goes so far. After a while, people don’t want to hear all the explanations and the rah-rah. They just want to cheer for their team.
So anyway. All of this was running through my head yesterday. It built up so that over the course of the day I had no choice but to admit that it was affecting me. Like, I left the house to go to the gym, and I almost turned my car around in the middle of the street to double-check that I’d locked the front door.
But of course I’d locked the front door. This was simple, unfocused anxiety talking. It took real effort, though, to ignore the little voices screaming in the back of my head.
None of that was real. It was all just borrowed insanity.
We all have our coping mechanisms. I personally like swimming. So I went to the pool, and I stood there stretching, telling myself, “Okay. Just get in the water. You’ll feel better in twenty minutes. You know this.”
I didn’t feel it, necessarily, but yeah. Intellectually, I knew that it was true.
The pool was somewhat crowded, so I got in the center lane with an older lady. I did not think much of it. This is what you do.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you mind moving to that other lane?”
She confused me at first, so I replied, “Go ahead.”
“No. I was here first. I want you to move.”
I was dumbfounded at this point. I’ve been swimming a while, in all kinds of different circumstances. This is NOT pool etiquette. And I’m thinking, “I’m having a serious anxiety day here, lady. Like, I am barely holding it together. Please just give me a minute before you start fucking with me.”
What I said was, “Swimming next to the wall makes me feel claustrophobic. But you can move.”
Swimming next to a wall wouldn’t have bothered me — much — most days. But yesterday wasn’t my day, and I really didn’t want to do it.
“Well,” she said, “what did I expect? You are a man, after all.”
“What the fuck?!” I said. Then, “FUCK!”
I moved. She stared at me, seemed to realize that maybe she’d taken it too far, thought about taking it back, and then I turned and tried to let it go. All I’d ever wanted was to just… swim.
But it was too late. I started seeing red. It all just came crashing in on me, and with the help of fully 39 years of competitive swimming experience, I translated all of that day’s madness — perfectly — straight into my workout. There were no losses or inefficiencies. For the next forty minutes or so, I had absolute mastery of all of my considerable physical gifts. I swam better and faster than I had in months — if not years. I then went into the weight room, stretched, and let the Devil all the way out. I hit recent bests on the incline bench, chest fly machine, and kettlebell tricep extension, and I had to force myself to stop eventually, so I wouldn’t hurt myself.
In all, I had nearly two hours of perfect physical performance.
I texted my wife a selfie mid-workout.
“Why do you look sad?” she asked.
I didn’t know. Nor could I shake the feelings off, even in the exhaustion and afterglow of a prolonged, perfect physical experience.
I got home and told her this story. We then sat down and had a glass of wine. It took awhile, but I slowly started feeling like myself as we talked, for which I felt intensely grateful.
That was a glorious experience but not one I ever hope to repeat.
And now I find myself coming back to this one essential question. Why am I my best, most perfect self physically when I’m my worst, most vile self mentally and emotionally?
At a certain point, this is gonna be a problem, right?
No comments:
Post a Comment