Didn't We Almost Have It All?

Apparently I clicked "save as draft" instead of "publish" last week, so here's my Thanksgiving tale.

I have dubbed this year's Thanksgiving as Thanksgiving Inchoate. I knew that if I squawked enough before my inevitable and involuntary attendance at the Rebs' Thanksgiving dinner, it wouldn't be nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. I had imagined being set upon by Harpies, picked at for being a male knitter, or forced into a small corner with some other exile, compelled to discuss the weather and the Sooners' chances. So I was actually chipper that morning when I awoke to find that YHWH was fully ill with a cold. Surely she would be unable to endure a full afternoon of the Extended Family Plan.

That morning I took a pre-emptive three-mile walk through the neighborhood at a brisk pace so that I would be in a good mood. I hate to admit that, because a) I loathe exercise; 2) I loathe sunshine; and d) I'm really uncomfortable being in a good mood. But I thought it might help because I was resigned to go to YHWH's family gathering and I didn't want her to feel like she had to choose me or them. Even so, just before leaving the house I reached into the top cabinet and sipped a shot of relaxing cognac.

There were about thirty people there, but I was only related by blood to one of them. I just sat on a couch and watched the football game and simply nodded and waved to everyone when they came in. I didn't even have to converse about the Dolphins' defense or the Sooners' chances. No one asked how work was going or what grade Killer is in now. I just sat there with a nice relaxing grin on my face.

When dinner came, it was a free-for-all seating arrangement spanning four rooms and I was somewhat taken aback by the number of people who made no effort to sit anywhere near their nuclear families. I immediately regretted not having eaten a hearty breakfast. Here it was 1:00 and I had only consumed a cup of coffee and a shot of 'yac and there was very nearly nothing I wanted to eat on the harvest smorgasbord before me. There were steamed whole green beans, not green bean casserole with fried onions on top; the dressing was not stuffing and looked like a large, full bedpan from a hospital influenza ward; there were thick cut roasted sweet potatoes rather than candied yams with melted marshmallows on top; the mashed potatoes were garlic-saged with the peels swirled in as opposed to the stiff white potatoes which can hold a reservoir for white gravy (of which there was none); and the Pillsbury crescent rolls simply paled in comparison to my sister's butterhorns. As I'd hoped, YHWH only held out through lunch and within a half-hour we were excusing ourselves to go over to her aunt's for dessert and then home to bed.

It all had the ethos of attending one of those dinners you get at a banquet or some other workplace function held at a hotel. No one wanted to be there. There was no enmity, no strife, but no affection or love or filial piety or desire to relate beyond the agreement to meet annually on the third Thursday in November. Definitely not Thanksgiving.