Calm the Fuck Down

by Sarah Knight

  So what exactly was in your bag, the loss of which has brought on the waterworks? Among other things, that “I SHOWED UP AT RASHIDA’S 40TH AND ALL I GOT WAS PERIMENOPAUSE” T-shirt is going to be tough to replace. And your favorite pajamas? I sense another sob session coming on. And I fully support a quick confab with the emotional puppies, but if you have any hope of salvaging this trip (and maybe being reunited with your Samsonite), now you need to crate ’em up and calm the fuck down.

  Bu-bu-bu-but h-h-how?

  We need to reboot your mood. Choose one of the self-care techniques from here and here and see where it takes you.

  Laughter is the best medicine. Go here.

  You’re in for a treat. Go here.

  Nah, I’m just going to wallow. Suit yourself. Go here.

  You picked “Laughter is the best medicine.”

  On the face of it, there is nothing funny about the pickle in which you find yourself—and far be it from me to make light of your situation in an effort to cheer you up—but… might it be just a teensy bit amusing to think about the look on the face of the insurance adjuster who has to Google a “Je Joue Mio” in order to approve your claim?

  When you realized the baggage carousel was empty, your mind leapt immediately to that Hard Rock Daytona Beach XXL T-shirt you’ve been sleeping in since 1994. You got a little choked up, sure. But I suggest digging a little deeper, and recalling the story behind the shirt? THAT might bring a smile to your face.

  Now take a deep breath. Connect to the airport Wi-Fi. Go to YouTube and search for the following:

  “Hey cat. Hey.”

  “Alan, Alan, Alan.”

  “Dogs: 1 Nash: 0”

  (If none of these do it for you, I give up. You’re dead inside.)

  Alright, feeling a smidge better? Did you, at the very least, stop crying? Good. Baby steps. Now, would you like to give that other coping mechanism a shot to help you calm down even more—or just go straight to dealing with it?

  It probably wouldn’t hurt to get yet more calm. Go here.

  I feel like I can deal with it now. Go here.

  You picked “You’re in for a treat.”

  This would be my go-to as well. I don’t know what it is about stress or feeling sad that makes me want to engage in some balls-to-the-wall emotional eating, drinking, and shopping, but there you have it, sports fans—if I’m leaving the airport without my suitcase, I’m ALSO leaving it with three Cinnabons, a novelty shot glass, and the latest Us Weekly.

  Furthermore, there are worse places to hang out for an hour while the Southwest rep “double-checks the baggage carts” than an airport bar/restaurant that serves alcohol, dessert, and alcoholic dessert. A Baileys-infused Brownie Sundae never hurt nobody. If you’re teetotal, or if savory treats are more your bag, I have it on good authority that at any given time an airport contains more Cheddar Cheese Pretzel Combos than you are capable of eating. I smell a challenge!

  And think about it this way: on one hand, if your bag doesn’t materialize, you’ll be the odd woman out at Rashida’s birthday party. But on the other hand, you have an excuse to shop for a sexy replacement outfit, and while everyone else is wearing their PERIMENOPAUSE tees, you’ll be—as Robin Thicke maintains—“the hottest bitch in this place.”

  Smiling yet? I hope so. But if you want to get additional self-care on, there’s more where this came from—or you can go straight to dealing with it. Your choice.

  I am feeling better, but I could still use a laugh. Go here.

  I’m ready to deal with it! Go here.

  You decided to WALLOW…

  Did you hear that? I think it was a sad trombone. This doesn’t bode well for your vacation.

  You moped through the taxi line, did the “Woe Is Me” dance up to your hotel room, and are considering skipping Rashida’s welcome drinks to sit on your bed and cry into the minibar, waiting for Southwest to call. Right now, you’re more focused on feeling sorry for yourself than you are on enjoying the girls’ weekend you spent good money on (not to mention got waxed for). I’d tell you to snap out of it, but you already sealed your fate when you turned to this page.

  Can we all agree that this is no way to fly? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to see what’s happening over on the Flipside?

  I know when I’m beat. Gimme some of that “laughter is the best medicine” shit. It’s got to be better than this. Word. Go here.

  Yes, I would like to try the treats. You won’t be sorry. Go here.

  Nope, I’m a martyr for the cause. Time to deal with it. Go here.

  Rashida’s Birthday Bash

  RIO #3: Call in depressed to welcome drinks and hope one of the girls can lend you an outfit for tomorrow.

  Well, that’s just sad. If you were going to let something like lost luggage send you this deep into the doldrums, I’m not sure you ever had a fighting chance. If, someday, you get tired of being so easily brought to tears and wish to instead calm the fuck down before you try to deal with shit—and then, you know, actually deal with it—I humbly direct you to go here or here.

  Or—and this is a novel idea!—you might just want to reread the whole book. A little refresher course never hurt anyone.

  To choose a different adventure, go here.

  Or, skip ahead to the Epilogue here.

  You picked

  Simmer down there, Hulk Hogan. I know you’re upset, but ramming your [empty] luggage cart into a wall is not going to win you any points with airport security.

  What exactly was in your bag that’s worth the scene you’re about to cause at the United Help Desk? Are you really getting this worked up over a tuxedo for a work trip awards ceremony? Ah, or is it because you were in charge of transporting Helen from HR’s lifetime achievement award to this annual shareholders’ meeting and now you need a replacement ugly Lucite statue thingy by 5:00 p.m. Thursday?

  Gotcha. This is bullshit. You were literally the first one at the gate for this flight—how the fuck did they lose your and only your bag? I don’t know. But I do know this: you need to calm the fuck down.

  Oh yeah? And how the hell am I supposed to do that?

  Well, you have a couple of options, both of which I outlined here of this very book. Pick one.

  Work it out. Go here. (And maybe do some stretches first.)

  Plot your revenge. Go here.

  Actually, I’ve been looking for an excuse to punch a wall. Suit yourself. Go here.

  You decided to work it out!

  Good choice. And although Terminal B at LaGuardia is probably not the most opportune place to do a naked cartwheel, there do happen to be endless roomy corridors in which you could hop, skip, or jump your way to calming the fuck down.

  Or you could try walking in the wrong direction on one of those people movers. It might get you some dirty looks from your fellow travelers, but at this point, they’re lucky they’re not getting far worse from you. In addition to physical exertion, this activity requires focus and coordination—two more things that are better employed in service of calming down than they are directed from your fist to the face of the United rep who is wholly blameless but unlucky enough to be on duty tonight.

  Now, with the remaining charge left on your phone (why you didn’t pack your chargers in your carry-on, I’ll never understand, but we’ll deal with that later), may I suggest locating the nearest restroom, locking yourself in a stall, and completing a ten-minute meditation app before you continue on with your evening?

  You’re getting there. The angry juices have exited your body by way of perspiration or deep breathing, and you’re feeling pretty calm, all things considered. Did you want to plot some revenge as well, or just go straight to dealing with it?

  Ooh, plotting my revenge sounds fun. And so it is. Go here.

  Nope, I’m ready to rip off the Band-Aid. Let’s deal with it! Go here.

  You decided to plot your revenge.

  Excellent.

  You’re still well and
truly pissed off, but you recognize that getting up in anyone’s face—directly, at least—will probably not serve and may actually impede your end goal of getting your stuff back and/or getting out of this airport not in handcuffs. So once you do manage to exit LGA without a felony assault charge, in what ways might you direct your vengeance? (Hypothetically, of course.) You can’t be sure precisely who mislaid your bag, but that doesn’t matter in a hypothetical. Let’s say it was the dude at the check-in desk whose brain freeze sent your stuff to Newark instead of New York. You could:

  Find out his home address and sign him up for a lifetime subscription to Girls and Corpses magazine.*

  Or

  Have an exact replica of your suitcase delivered to his front door, but instead of your stuff, it’s full of glitter. And a remote-controlled wind turbine.

  That was fun, wasn’t it? Now it’s time to have a calm conversation with the gate agent, hand over your details in case they can locate and deliver your stuff in time for it to be of any use to you, and get in the taxi line.

  Unless—did you want to try “Working it out” as well—just in case it suits you even better? Or shall we go straight to dealing with it?

  I’m still a little peeved, to be honest. Let’s try to work it out. Go here.

  I’m ready to deal with it! Go here.

  Uh-oh. You decided to MAKE IT WORSE.

  Although you fell short of being thrown in airport jail (barely), you did not conduct yourself in a manner becoming a Platinum Rewards member, that’s for sure. You whined, you snarked, you said “You’ve got to be kidding me” about fifteen times—each progressively louder than the last—and then you demanded to speak to a supervisor. A request to take your grievance up the chain is not in and of itself a terrible idea, but you (and it physically pains me to type this), you preceded that entreaty with the words “Whose friendly skies do I have to fly to get somebody who knows what they’re doing around here, Caroline?” and made, um, a very rude gesture to the gate agent.

  Plus, the nine-year-old kid across the way was taking video. You’re going viral in—oh, wait, you already have. Your boss, your wife, and your own nine-year-old kid are going to see exactly what you’ve been up to since you landed. And Caroline? She’s going to “locate” your missing suitcase in the trash room behind the food court MexiJoe’s. Good luck getting the cumin smell out of your tux.

  Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like to see what’s up on the Flipside?

  YES, YES I SHOULD PROBABLY TRY TO “WORK IT OUT.” Go here.

  Politely and silently plotting my revenge is a better use of my time and energy. I see that now. Go here.

  Fuck it. Take me straight to dealing with it. Okeydokey then. Go here.

  The Business Trip

  RIO #3: Try to not get fired or smell like cheese.

  TRIAGE AND TACKLE:

  Remember when life was simpler and you didn’t just put your job and reputation on the line for the sake of venting your frustrations at a perfectly nice gate agent named Caroline who was just following Lost Luggage/Angry Customer protocol? Those were the days.

  Also: I just saw the YouTube video. It’s not looking good for you, bud. You may want to save your pennies on that tux rental—you’ll need them to supplement your unemployment benefits.

  Next time, if you decide you do want to take my advice and calm the fuck down before you try to deal with shit, give here or here a shot. (Or maybe just go back to the beginning of the book and start over. Yeah, maybe that.)

  To choose a different adventure, go here.

  Or, skip ahead to the Epilogue here.

  You picked

  Tempting. Very tempting. If you close your eyes and pretend like this isn’t happening, maybe it will resolve itself like these kinds of things often NEVER do. Which is why you’ve decided your best defense is no offense at all, and that is the hill you’re prepared to die on/bury your head in. Okay.

  And I know you’ve already stopped listening, but can we talk for just a sec about what was in your bag? Your chargers and cables, the team mascot you were babysitting, and your lucky bowling shoes for the Northeastern Regional League Championships aren’t going to replace themselves, and avoidance is neither going to solve the Mystery of the Missing Luggage nor help you defend your league-leading five-bagger from last year’s Semis.

  You need to calm the fuck down.

  I REFUSE TO ENGAGE WITH ANY OF THIS SHIT. DOES THAT COUNT AS BEING CALM?

  We’ve been over this. Avoidance is still a form of freaking out, and you are going to have to deal with all of it at some point. For now, can I at least convince you to choose a better coping mechanism and see where it takes you?

  Get alarmed. Go here.

  Propose a trade. Go here.

  I’ll just be over here with my head in the sand. Fine. Be that way. Go here.

  You decided to “get alarmed.”

  Your initial instinct was to treat this debacle like the Republican establishment treated Donald Trump in the 2016 primary—just ignore it and hope it’ll go away. And we all know how that turned out. THANKS GUYS. Instead, you need to take action. Even if it’s just a small step forward, it’s better than standing by as a limp-dicked man-child destroys the world. Or, you know, as your lucky bowling shoes get rerouted to Tampa.

  You may recall from my tip here that one surefire way to shock yourself into action is by way of an incessant noise. As such, here are some ideas to get your head out of the sand and back into the game:

  Set a deadline. Give yourself, say, twenty minutes to pretend this isn’t happening. Set an alarm on your watch or phone and when it goes off, spring into action like one of Pavlov’s pooches. Get thee to the Help Desk!

  Or, dial up the Econo Lodge right now and request a 7:00 a.m. wakeup call. Quick, before you can think too hard about it. You can spend the intervening hours in blissful ignorance, but when the handset starts squawking, that’s your cue to get a move on.

  Talk to yourself. Not to be confused with sobbing uncontrollably or screaming at airline employees, a midvolume mantra can do wonders for your mind-set. Resist the urge to retreat inward, and repeat after me (out loud): I CAN DEAL WITH THIS SHIT. I WILL DEAL WITH THIS SHIT.

  Well, would you look at that? You might have some life in you yet. Did you want to try my “propose a trade” tip too, or just go straight to dealing with it?

  You know what? I think I could use a little more motivation. Go here.

  I’m totally ready to deal with it! Go here.

  You decided to “propose a trade.”

  I know you, and I know this latest shitstorm isn’t the only thing on your must-avoid list these days. So how about we make a deal? If you bite the bullet and march yourself over to the gate agent to start the torturous process of SPEAKING TO ANOTHER HUMAN BEING in hopes of tracking down your bag and getting it delivered to the Econo Lodge in a timely fashion (such that you can avoid having to avoid OTHER EXTREMELY ENERVATING ACTIVITIES like “shopping for new bowling shoes”), then I hereby grant you permission to continue avoiding any one of the following:

  • Investigating those scratching noises coming from behind the wall in the kitchen.

  • Opening that card from your ex. It might not be a birth announcement. (It is definitely a birth announcement.)

  • Booking a root canal.

  • RSVP’ing to Steve’s Chili Cook-off. (Steve’s famous recipe is less “chili” and more “hot dog smoothie.”)

  What say you? Rapping with Delta Customer Service seems practically pleasant in comparison to some of those other tasks, eh? So come on—put one foot in front of the other and let’s go see a guy about a suitcase, shall we? (Then maybe when you get back from the Regionals, it’ll be time to let Steve down gently while you avoid unpacking said suitcase.)

  But I don’t want to rush you. Would you like to try “getting alarmed,” just to see what that’s all about? Or go straight to dealing with it?

  If trying another coping mechanism me
ans I get to avoid dealing with it for a little longer, sign me up. Fair enough. Go here.

  No, you know what? I am totally ready to deal with it! Go here.

  Northeastern Regionals

  You decided to do absolutely nothing.

  Which is why you find yourself wondering what the heck you’re supposed to do in Doylestown, PA, for the next four days if you can’t compete in Regionals because you don’t really feel like having to go out and buy new bowling shoes (and you certainly don’t want to wear rentals like some kind of amateur), but you also don’t have the gumption to rebook your return flight home any earlier.

  Actually, you’re probably not even wondering any of that… yet. You’re the type who waits for the shitstorm to pause directly overhead and deposit its metaphorical deluge before you even think about reaching for a metaphorical umbrella.

  Let me tell you how I think this is going to go. (I’m trying really hard not to be judgy, but we’ve come a long way together and I hate to see you reverting to your ostrichy ways.) I think you’re going to fall asleep in this lumpy hotel bed and wake up tomorrow with a dead cell phone and no toothbrush. I hope that one of those outcomes compels you to take action and at least cadge a mini-bottle of Scope from the sundries shop in the lobby. If they sell phone chargers, so much the better—you do love the path of least resistance! But this is the Econo Lodge, so don’t get your hopes up. If they don’t, you’re either going to keep avoiding dealing with any part of this shitshow and waste four days eating the best the vending machine has to offer before you can go home and continue pretending like it never happened; OR one of your teammates will notice you haven’t been replying to his trash-talking texts, come looking for you, lend you some clean socks, and physically drag you to Barry’s House of Bowlingwear. You may be hopeless when it comes to dealing with shit, but you’re the Hook Ball King. The team needs you.