published with permission from The Tahoma Literary Review
If you are standing in the kielbasa line at Nationals Stadium, do not dramatically leave the queue. Do not hip check people out of your way as you attempt to burst through a stanchion belt like it’s the finish line ribbon at your local 5K. Nylon stanchion belts do not break. Do not immediately look to your girlfriend for help. Though she supports you like a nylon stanchion belt, right now she’s as freaked out as you are. Do not spill your beer. You’ll need this later.
If you are walking through the condiments aisle of the gleaming new Harris Teeter at the corner of Madison and St. Asaph, perhaps perplexed by the apparent difference between cornichons and gherkins, do not consider putting a name on what you are suddenly feeling. You are wasting time thinking about anxious v. anxiety v. anxiety disorder, no matter what the National Institute for Health suggests you do. Do not let your eyes fly from object to object, searching for an exit like a caged feral cat or a teenager at a house party when the cops come. Instead, find something to focus on. A familiar face is good. Your friend’s, for example, especially if, after you make eye contact, his face clearly signifies “calm down, it’s going to be OK.” Sometimes a familiar face is not so good. Your friend’s, for example, especially if, after you make eye contact, his face clearly signifies “are you having a panic attack? In the new Harris Teeter?”
If you are at a Mexican restaurant celebrating a birthday – not yours – with extended family and friends, do not get up from the table without saying anything. Do not pretend you are going to the bathroom, but then exit out the front door. Do not walk home 6.3 miles in your flip-flops, unintentionally walking through the “bad” part of town, hoping the homeless and high and half-crazy won’t talk to you. They won’t. You’ll be the one who looks crazy.
If you are riding your new (used) 1999 Triumph Thunderbird, do not worry, as a panic attack will never happen. Your family and friends may be concerned that you have possibly purchased this death machine in a passive attempt to kill yourself, especially your girlfriend, who is the only one aware that just a few weeks ago you wrecked your truck simply pulling out of the driveway. But they do not know. They do not know that a motorcycle is something to hold on to. They do not know that this motorcycle is responsive to you and you alone. And though your friends will tell you there are two types of motorcycle riders – those who have been in a wreck and those who will be – what they do not know is that you, while wearing your full-faced white helmet with black offset racing stripes and black leather boots and black leather gloves and a new unmistakably badass black leather jacket with more zippers than any one human needs, you feel completely in control. They do not know how much you feel in charge, how fully wide awake you are, how fully conscious you are of your body and your surroundings, how you interact with air, with bone-vibrating cold, with vibrant leaves falling from the canopy of trees roofing the George Washington Parkway as you head south on a late September afternoon.