With a slow turn of the knob, you open the door of whatever sucker in your family decided to open their house to drunken relatives, gravy stains, and a pile of dishes that will take Christmas to clean up. The smell of roasting meat and piles of desserts assault your senses as you strike a faustian deal with yourself: just one slice of pie and I’ll go to the gym for an extra hour next week.
You instantly know, you’re lying to yourself, and that you’ll forget all about this moment next week, when you can’t button your favorite skinny jeans.. “What’s going on?” you’ll ask yourself, and assume you shrank the pre-shrunken cotton pants in the wash.
Now, you’ve got your plate piled up higher than the people you judge at the salad bar at Whole Foods for loading up their recycled cardboard container like it’s the end of the world and there will never be enough organic chicken salad for everyone; and you sit down to engage in the ridiculous conversation at the table.
You cope, by eating your feelings (there’s more than enough options,) reliving the traumas of childhood that your family members decide are funny jokes. And when you reach the bottom on your plate, you hate yourself for lots of reasons.
There’s always the pie. Extra hour at the gym, right?
Football. Booze. Football. Picture. Booze. Power-nap.
You’re back at the door; a plate of even more horribly-delicious food wrapped carefully in tin-foil balanced in one hand. You’re hugging some third cousin with the other and promising to visit again, soon.
It’s a lie. But that’s what you’re most thankful for. Your ability to do it so convincingly.
Happy thanksgiving! I’m taking this year off.