The last time there was a presidential debate, things didn’t go too well.

      You could tell from the first minute. At my house, we turned off the TV about 15 or 20 minutes in. It had just become too painful to watch.

      Maybe that’s why we’re so worried about Tuesday’s debate?

      So, much, it seems, is riding on it.

      Like only the future of our democracy.

      The rights of women and the hopes of immigrants. Our air. Our freedom. The possibilities for us and for our children and grandchildren and for the rest of the world. The health of the planet.

      We know Kamala Harris is not Joe Biden, we know she is younger and sharper and better prepared. She is not raspy and muddled and off her game.

      And yet, we are worried that he will somehow overwhelm her with his relentless barrage of lies and bullshit and wear her down. Force her into incomprehensible legalese, get her twisted into pretzel knots of elitism as she gets forced to play on his turf.

      And we fear that some who are watching—not many, but enough—will take his angry bluster as strength and take her reasonableness as weakness.

      Finally, we fear as well that whatever happens will be portrayed as he said this, she said that, with scant attention paid to his being a crazy motherfucking moron.

      Maybe it will all turn out all right. Maybe, in the end, it won’t mean all that much. There are still, after all, another seven or so weeks to go. Lots of things can happen. And maybe the country, the world, the planet will survive no matter what.

      At our age, though, there may not be many elections left. So, we’re worried. We remember the last debate.