The plate (almost) broke

Instead of saying, "It was the straw that broke the camel's back," Grandma always says, "The plate broke." When she was a young wife she threw a dinner party using her good china. Washing the dishes after the guests left, one of the plates slipped out of her sudsy hand and shattered. On a normal night, it wouldn't have bothered her. She would have swept up the shards, shrugged, and finished the rest of the dishes. But for some reason, on that particular night having that particular plate break sent her over the edge. My whole family uses the expression and it is flashing in my mind like a Vegas marquee driving home after a day filled with too many meetings.
Where did I put the Comcast bill? It could be on my table but there are so many magazines, bills, and gift cards scattered across the surface I will never be able to find it there. Or maybe it is mixed in with the pile of books, electronics cords, and receipts in the office. Or maybe, maybe I need to stop. If I keep thinking about it, the Comcast bill will break the plate. I think the tightness in my chest isn't from to a seat belt doing its job too well, and the lump at the base of my throat can’t be blamed on the dust from road construction. Both are anxiety, I know the signs well enough. Tension has been stacking up inside me like Jenga blocks since I found out that Grandpa had a stroke last month. Grad school, painting bedrooms, workplan, stacks of laundry, Thanksgiving airfare, friends chasing drama, unmown lawn, empty fridge, dating confusion, and the missing Comcast bill; somewhere between the parking garage and my house I could feel it all start pressing in around me.
Taking a deep breath, I switch the radio off, put my seat back just a smidge and stretch my head from side to side. “I can hold it off,” I told myself, “A few more minutes and I’ll be home.”
Finally I turn off the alley and pull the key out. Now, I can close my eyes and take myself away—away from the air threatening to squish me into a ball. Pulling away from that thought, I stop resisting and push myself through the exercise of placing my mind somewhere quiet, peaceful, safe. It doesn’t want to go and I can feel my heart speed up in my chest as I realize I might not be able to do this. What if I get stuck in this place swirling with worry? What if I can't get out and I'm trapped and suffocate and--
But I know I can. I’ve done it before. I can do it now. I'll do it again, if I have to.
Forced relaxation: almost as much of an oxymoron as sanitary landfill or jumbo shrimp. “I will stay in this garage until I don’t care about the Comcast bill even if it means sleeping in the driver’s seat,” I say outloud to the dashboard. One limb at a time I go to a place where the air becomes gentle, a hammock swings, and the sun sets softly. I let myself linger long enough to set the plate down and reassure myself it is not going to break. Then I open my eyes and climb out of the car.
Fortunately, it hasn't taken me all night and before my stomach starts grumbling enough to bring the neighbors outside I get to the point where I feel like myself again. “I’ll look for the bill after I eat,” I think, “Food is more important.”
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This is where I take myself, every time.