When I Grow Up, There Will Be No Thanksgiving

When I Grow Up, There Will Be No Thanksgiving

Not that the food was bad. Or the laziness of sitting around with people was horrible. Or that it wasn’t a switch to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast.

Just that, you know. I don’t really need to be a glutton on purpose for three days running. Because how I feel after that? Is how I feel right now. Which is shitty. And tired. And ashamed of how much I spent at the goddamn Shopko.

Did I need to buy anything at the goddamn Shopko?
Did I need to eat pumpkin pie (and apple cake, and cheesecake, and dark chocolate) for breakfast?
Did I need to watch Daniel Craig like a lecherous cougar on the James Bond marathon while half in a food coma?

Of course not. But that’s what Thanksgiving means to me. Which is supremely the opposite of the pious, humble gratitude-fest it’s supposed to be, right?

The best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had was when my poor father blew out a disc in his back and I had to fly to Houston and help him and my mother out. People brought us some key Thanksgiving foods – pecan-crusted sweet potatoes and stuffing, for example – but mostly I lived off hummos, falafel and tabouleh from the Middle Eastern Market, while my dad took pain pills and hobbled around. Also, my mother took me to Hobby Lobby. And we had naps and watched TV. Also, it was like 65 degrees. And a gecko was living in the guest room, so I slept on the sofa like a loser the whole time, but it was brilliant.

No disrespect to this year’s celebration. Wouldn’t want to sound ungrateful. But that Houston Thanksgiving? Can we do that again sometime? Minus the blown-out back and the gecko?

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