The Stress Dance

So recently between riots, 'rona, insane presidents, and the passing of my mother, I've been going through some tough times. On a daily basis, I alternate between anger, despair, anxiety, and sadness.

On a recent trip to visit my daughter and her "stress dogs (I label them this as they're so out-of-control, it's very therapeutic to constantly scream at them to STOP IT or SHUT THE HELL UP!)," I told my daughter how I was just so...so...so damn anxiety-ridden.

She looked at me, finally said, "Dad, you know what I do when I'm feeling that way? Something that really, really, really works?"

Desperate for relief, I scoot up in my seat. "What?"

"Okay, stand up."

I do.

"Now, stick your arms out by your sides," she instructs.

Again, I do this, believing she's about to show me something truly effective and maybe even a little profound.

"Spread your legs."

I follow her advice feeling like Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, but knowing absolutely I look nothing like him.

"Now, squat."

"Squat?"

"Squat," she demands.

Okay, I'm 59, overweight, and squatting's not exactly on my daily regimen. But I'm all in now. I struggle and force myself into a semblance of a squat.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Yeah... I think."

"Now scream and stomp your feet!"

Blindly, I follow like a brainwashed political supporter does these days. I stomp, roar, feel myself wobbling like a Weeble, and hope I don't fall down. Time stands still as I'm bellowing like Fred looking for Wilma. The house begins to shake. One of the dogs runs behind the sofa, the other runs toward me to play.

I imagine--no, I know--it's not a pretty sight. Down in a squat, I probably look like a 'roid-raged Rumplestiltskin after his gold has been stolen. I keep doing it, trying to let my pent-up anger release into the rafters.

Until, I notice my daughter's rolling in her chair, hysterically laughing.

I stop. "Wait... Did you just make this up?"

Between giggles, she pushes out, "Yes. But you feel better, don't you?"

After a minute, I straightened, pondered. "Yeah...yeah, I do!"

Speaking of feeling better in these trying times, why not give yourself a break and indulge in my mystery comedy book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Hammock is the first in an ongoing "different kind of cozy book," as one reviewer called it, detailing the misadventures of a lunkhead male stripper and his much put-upon, very angry, very pregnant sleuth sister. Available here on Amazon!