This year, I will not overeat.
Hahahaha. Just kidding!
I kind of want to wear that burgundy wool mini skirt with black tights and a pair of black boots but I also know that there is a high likelihood I will be incapable of sitting down in a chair after that third helping of my grandmother’s stuffing. If my memory serves me correct, the last time I ate Thanksgiving dinner at her house, I ended up sprawled across the floor for three hours before I got back up and finished the pumpkin pie that my brother brought. That was so much fun.
It gets stuffy in that apartment. I should bring a t-shirt. And elastic waist band pants.
I can’t believe I haven’t been to her house in three years for this dinner. I wonder how my cousin Lara is doing. Did her husband get fatter? Is that even possible? I wonder if he found a job yet. I’m not even going to ask. But maybe I should. Nah, it’s not my business.
Should I hide the desserts I’m bringing so he doesn’t eat them?
You can be such an asshole sometimes, Leandra. Why do you even think these things?
I wonder if Sasha is bringing her daughters. The new one is cute, the older one is a fucking diva. I will put money on her asking for, like, truffle oil or something, Again, Leandra, asshole. She’s five years old. Stop.
I am so excited for this meal. Thanksgiving has to be one of America’s greatest gifts to its people. Obviously, though, there stands the question of what it means that we celebrate our having driven indigenous people out of this land to establish a free democracy. Hypocritical or what?
I wonder if I love this holiday with so much conviction because it feels like the only one that I can participate in culturally. The Jewish ones immunize me to Easter and Christmas and ours kind of blow because they always require such a dense dose of guilt. There’s never not the element of synagogue, or prayer, or something that stands as a prerequisite to the meal. Maybe I should go to the gym before we head to dinner. I need a bikini wax, too, though. I should probably have a drink before I get — oh! That’s a decent idea. Maybe I have a glass of wine, walk over to the bikini wax place and then head up — wait, they must be closed. That’s relieving.
Why do we eat turkey on Thanksgiving? I should look it up. Actually, I should have a conversation and try to figure it out without so immediately resorting to Google. Considering there will be all of two English speakers at dinner, though I’m probably being ambitious here. I wonder why my grandmother even makes this meal. We couldn’t be less American if we tried. Where did she learn to make stuffing? I didn’t even think she knows what a marshmallow is.
So I’m probably just going to wear vintage Levi’s with this striped turtleneck. There is a 0% chance Sasha won’t make a corny-ass joke about how stupid I look. Her mom will chime in, too. And then they will ask who makes my shirt after telling me I look like a waiter and I will say Gucci. Per usual, they will both retract their statements, say “Ohhhh, very nice,” and I will roll my eyes. Of course, it’s actually Topshop.
By this point, Lara’s husband will have indubitably finished all the cakes. Plural. My dad will be yelling in Turkish to my grandfather about the stock market and my grandmother will be yelling, too, telling my grandpa that if he doesn’t put his hearing aid in, she is going to throw him out. My mom will probably be in the kitchen for most of the night, revealing herself only every 20 minutes to remind us that she’s there. My brother will tell me I look like a chicken. My husband will laugh. My uncle will ask me to put him on “the Man Eater” blog while my other brother tries to convince me that he should intern, with pay, for me.
I will never be so simultaneously elated and depressed for a night to end.
*A half-fictional re-telling.*