Without Anxiety, A Pretty Good Weekend…


On paper, my weekend looks decent. I am not bragging. Believe me, I know this past Friday, Saturday and Sunday were not the greatest of all time. Nor do I even think it was a great one for me. But on paper, it was just a shade below par. Which considering how much my past few weekends have sucked, that makes it pretty damn good.

On Friday night, S, F, and I went over to A’s, the math genius, loft. Soon the loft would be sold to yuppies kicking A and his roommates to the street. The inflated price the owner would be getting was sick. The fact that someone would pay double the value to live three blocks over from the edge of the chic neighborhood sad. But it gave a good excuse to throw a party and to see friends of friends.

Saturday night, C drank margaritas while I ate flan. C inspected the establishment to see if his parents might enjoy the place during their upcoming visit. The fact that they lived in Texas, home of the best Mexican food North of the border, did not sway C away from taking them to a place where he and I spoke more Spanish than any of the employees.

Sunday, I watched the Portugal game with S and F. After the game, we hung out and then ate at a Persian restaurant. A low-key day mostly spent talking about work, friends and failed relationships.

Like I said, not the greatest weekend ever. But it beat watching reruns of CSIs. It would have been my best weekend in two months, if not for the anxiety.

Not once during the weekend, did I have five minutes where I did not think to myself. “How am I feeling?”

It started with a full-blown panic attack while driving home on Friday: lightheaded, tight chest, the works all while at a stoplight sitting next to a cop car.

I left the party after an hour and a half. I could feel myself get hot and another attack on the way. F graciously drove me home and then went back to free booze. My only contribution to the event had been mixing vodka and cool-aid for a newlywed couple.

With C, it was easier. The flan relaxed me. But I still continently fretted (yes, I a male, fretted) when the next bad attack would happen.

Sunday was the worst. I went through all of the motions. Except, now thoughts of it may be my heart came back. Every time I turned in a chair or walked to the bathroom, I asked not, “will I feel bad?”, but, “how bad am I going to feel?”

Anxiety won this weekend and Monday as well. It’s Tuesday now, and I am feeling better. Hope I get a W today.