What a time to be down to my last blood pressure pill.

OK, I know I wrote about football a few weeks ago, but hey, this is the playoffs, baby. By the time anyone reads this, today’s Rose Bowl game will have been decided. I will either be floating in a cloud of green and yellow Nike afterglow or sweeping the living room clear of vehemently hurled objects — no, not the cat boys. The boys will be safely entrenched away from the tumult and under my bed playing Go Fish and munching Blue Buffalo chicken treats and dip.

Here we are again, hopeful Duck fans perched on the rim of a big Bowl of Roses and having to face the Ohio State Buckeyes again. One would assume that a duck could vanquish a seed with relative ease, but this particular variety has proven a tough nut to crack and poisonous, unless you’re Michigan.

I have a concern. I think I feel my heart rate elevating with the game yet a full six hours off. Or maybe it’s the pounding feet and tribal chant of 50,000 Oregon fans headed to Pasadena to represent us well. Go, Ducks!

Poor Lane. I invited him over to watch the skirmish with me knowing full well I may end up throwing a tantrum for which I’ll simultaneously apologize. Now, I do not advise drinking alcoholic beverages as a way to placate an anxious football fanatic, but we thought perhaps one glass of wine to remove the barb from penalties, interceptions, and sacks.

It has been my observation that the more said fan drinks, the more volatile, yet higher quality quarterback they become — calling each play ahead of the offensive coordinator and spewing crass invective at him when things don’t go our way, of which they tried to inform him there in Pasadena. But since I’m not much of a drinker, I find alternatives.

I have a few ideas to help prevent my diving over the edge. My nativity scene is still on display. When I feel a particularly strong urge to let fly with some wise acre opinions, I will look toward the manger and contemplate my behavior while turning the baby away from me.

Another move that helps if the other team has momentum full tilt in its favor and their offensive fan base is screaming its lungs out obnoxiously, is to mute the sound. Blessings to whomever invented that mute button.

This move is also good if the announcers are wildly biased against us, likely Ohio State parents and alumni, as they drone on about how dominant the Buckeyes have been, comparing yardage and pass completions while exclaiming, “Whoa, look at the numbers there in print, Chris!” “Yes, Kirk, this is an utter annihilation.”

Muting serves to lower the anxiety level quite a bit in this case, and possibly save replacing the TV. Then, as an added measure, I may don some headphones and play “Let It Be” on a loop. Or, I can change the channel to “Murder She Wrote” and pretend the game isn’t happening.

I may go for a walk and play kick the pine cones. Those big, gnarly ones that my digger pine drops would be perfect. I could imagine they’re footballs and I’m putting them nicely between the trees, thereby scoring field goals.

I’m crying before I’m hurt — one of Dad’s favorite sayings. It’s hard right now — not knowing. Maybe if my expectations are low, the victory will be more exciting — which is just as perilous for inanimate objects close by. I’m wondering if I should wear a helmet for my own protection. Hopefully, I will get to enjoy this gut-wrenching turmoil all over again for the semifinals. I have cleared my calendar.

Are we having fun yet? May I return to Cabot Cove? I’m wishing everyone a joyous and fruitful 2025, with or without a championship trophy. But it would be nice.

Peggy Dover’s “Rogue Wanderer” column will return Jan. 2.