Take it Down a Few Pegs, Son

My old man would always tell me a specific phrase whenever I was acting up. Whenever I was shooting off my mouth, whenever I was growing hot underneath the collar, whenever I was itching for a fight that was clearly not mine to win. Whenever I would get into these states – and it was typically at least once every day – it was not only apparent to me and to my old man, but it was apparent to everyone around me that my behavior was a problem. It was quite embarrassing, even when it was just a few other people around me. It was annoying because I felt like I couldn’t stop it, and it would just go like a top spinning faster and faster out of my control.

But I remember what my old man would do and say when I had these daily episodes. He would put a hand on my shoulder, stoop down so that he was eye level with me, and say, “Take it down a few pegs, son.” And even though I was upset and felt out of control, I would begin to slowly down regulate and see things a bit clearer after he said this to me. He always said it in a way that was neither angry or depressed. His voice was calm and even, his eyes at ease, and that’s all he would say, nothing more and nothing less. “Take it down a few pegs, son.” And it always worked.

I came to hate how it always worked like clockwork. I came to hate how it would always be that simple, so straightforward. Surely it happened so frequently and felt like it was always so out of my control, it demanded some type of complex and hard-won solution? But no, just some simple words delivered in a calm way.

As the years progressed, the hot-tempered episodes that I would experience happened less and less frequently. Where they used to happen at least once a day, by the time I was thirteen or fourteen they were happening about once a week. There was more stigma around counseling back in the day, and things like a “clinical mental health diagnosis” and “individualized education plan” didn’t exist.

And even when the episodes started occurring less frequently, my old man would still do the exact same thing to help me calm down. He would place a hand on my shoulder, stoop down so that we were eye level, and say calmly, “Take it down a few pegs, son.” Even though I knew it was coming every time and I wanted to skip through it, even though I knew the effects and how infuriatingly simplistic the tool he was using was, I allowed it to proceed and have its intended positive magic on me. What else could I do in that situation? I wasn’t about to run to my room or talk back, and I definitely wasn’t about to fight back. My old man could be gentle and patient, but he could also be stern and fiery when the opportunity arose. One thing my family members and I learned from him was that you never wanted to poke the bear. His wrath was never unjustified, but it was always real and potent.

I grew to be an adult, a person of my own. I graduated high school, I graduated college, I landed an internship with a company I admired, I secured a job with the same company and became part of the stable working class. The hot-tempered episodes of the past that happened once a week now happened every month or so. Whenever I had these episodes, I would call my old man and he would often take the call. He was retired by that point. Even though he wasn’t physically present with me in the room, even though it was impossible for him to put his hand on my shoulder and stoop down to meet me at eye level, all he needed to do was tell me in that even-keeled voice, “Take it down a few pegs, son.” And I would stop and breathe, and began to ever so slightly recalibrate, so that by the time I ended the phone call with him I was just about out of my episode.

I climbed up the ladder of the company. And before I knew it, my old man had been buried six feet deep in the ground. I knew that death was a part of life, I knew that all friends and family in our lives must die, I knew that this was a natural step along my journey, and yet still I was shaken and upset. How could he up and leave, just like that? Here one day, gone the next?

I remember being at the service and experiencing one of those well-known hot-collared episodes when an elderly acquaintance was speaking with me at the pews and saying all the well-meaning but horribly insensitive things that a person just isn’t supposed to say to the wounded and grieving. Even though I didn’t lash out at her, thank God, I could feel the anger episode beginning to well up within my chest, its vapors drifting up to my water-logged mind. “If you would please excuse me,” I told the old windbag, and I retreated to the men’s restroom.

I went into one of the empty stalls and took a seat. I was seeing red and my breathing was quick and tense. What would he tell me? I knew what he would tell me.

“Hello?” I said out loud. No one responded. I couldn’t hear anyone else in the restroom. I couldn’t see any pairs of feet on the bathroom floor under the stalls.

“Take it down a few pegs, son,” I said out loud. And gradually, I began to feel better and come down from the peak I had thrust myself onto. When I felt regulated enough, I washed up, exited the men’s restroom, and went out to greet the other mourners in attendance.

More years passed, as they were so wont to do, and whenever I would have the sporadic episode (they happened randomly and infrequently now), I would tell myself, “Take it down a few pegs, son.” It came to a place where I could tell this to myself internally and it would have the same positive effects.

My old man didn’t give any magic potion or poignant life lesson. He didn’t incentivize me or criminalize me. He just stayed with me, told me what I needed to do, and said it in a calm and patient way. That was it.

I think that’s the secret to thriving and staying regulated, if you ask me. Anyone who tells you that they have all the answers is lying. The more confidently they tell you that they have the answers, the more full of garbage they are.

The true and honest ones out there know that life is complex and that there are no easy answers. They know that people suffer, they know that life is full of unwanted surprises, and we’ve all got to find ways to stay balanced and centered and focused in this wild and crazy world. Because checking out early isn’t an option. Not that there’s any hate or ill will towards people who do check out early, it’s just that deep down we know that that isn’t really the right way to go about things. If we were put on this world by higher authority and force, then surely we are tasked with staying put on this world for as long as we are given life and breath to carry out our days. But this is not an easy task.

That’s the rub of life. We must carry onwards, until we reach the end of our road, and we must persist in patience and fortitude until the next world’s eternal glory, and we must do this in the midst of pain and brutality and nonsense. And to do this, we must stay calm and centered and focused with everything in our power. And if we are not in this state, we must stop and breathe and sequester ourselves and bring ourselves to that place where we gain back the ground, where we are closer to being calm and centered and focused, and then we go back out into the world. And whenever the world becomes too much, we go back and repeat the process until we are in a righter state.

My old man believed in this practice. And the older I get, as the days pass by, the more I have come to believe it, too.