Driving While Pissed

This makes me cry.

When the US lost the Women's World Cup last weekend (an event Mish and I refer to as "the incident that shall not be mentioned"), I was inconsolable. Whereas the two-time come-from-behind victory against Brazil in the quarterfinals filled my world with rainbows and daffodils and baby bunnies, the loss to Japan in the finals plunged me head-first into a vortex of darkness in which ghouls lurked in the caverns of my mind and an icy gale chilled the farthest reaches of my heart. I was a wreck the entire day. It's just soccer, I told myself over and over again, before remembering the look of utter heartbreak on the face of goalkeeper Hope Solo when the third penalty kick went whirring past her into the net. Screw that. This is the end of the world. The loss felt personal, a meticulously calculated plot carried out by the Japanese team with the malicious intent of ruining everything good in my life.

This makes me want to curl into a ball and die.

Several hours after the incident that shall not be mentioned, Mish and I went on an outing to Trader Joe's. I was still so distraught that I was practically hyperventilating in the store. "I need to do some breathing exercises," I told Mish as we stood in the wine section perusing the shelves for a nice Australian vintage. I sucked in several staccato breaths and exhaled once, long and deep. I was a freaking Lamaze class. After five minutes, I thought I would burst. "I'm in no condition to get back behind the wheel," I announced, fully convinced that the barren, desolate wasteland of my soul would disintegrate before I reached the car. "I'm afraid I'll get pulled over for driving while pissed." I instantly realized what I'd said and let loose a maniacal cackle. "Ha! Get it?!" I asked a mildly agitated Mish, who was attempting to navigate the newly arranged store to find the fizzy water. "Driving while pissed!" In Australia, "pissed" is another word for "intoxicated" or, more colloquially, "wasted out of your mind." "I made a funny!" I shrieked. "Driving while pissed!" Mish nodded her encouragement with a slightly amused expression that I can only assume masked a burning desire to knock me unconscious and wedge me onto the shelf behind the rice crackers. "Did you hear my funny? Did you? Driving while pissed? See, it's funny because I'm mad, but it could also mean that I'm drunk, which is something I would actually get pulled over for. Get it?! That was a good one." Mish nodded and I could tell she was wondering if I was actually drunk. As we headed to the checkout counter, I understood my faux pas. "It's not funny after I explain why it's funny, is it?" I asked. I didn't get a response but I didn't need one.

I managed to finish the day in a state of semi-hysteria, but falling asleep that night was completely out of the question. As soon as I closed my eyes I was inundated with images from the game: dangerous passes in front of the goal, bad positioning during set pieces, the Shannon Boxx penalty kick that soared miles above the top post. The next morning I awoke an hour before my alarm went off. I refused to get out of bed. I refused to greet a world in which we had not just won the Women's World Cup. I still can't stomach news of the loss. Finding these pictures ranked high on the list of worst moments in my life.

Perhaps I should not watch soccer.