I love my Thanksgiving Ritual (two separate links). I love the solitude, the food, the fact that I can wear PJ's all day and watch movies that no one else will watch with me. I love that my only contact with other people is by the phone, which I can turn off. I love that I'm not hustling around on trains or trolleys, politely updating near-strangers about my life, faking smiles and questions about theirs. I frickin' love it. The insulation of an empty apartment, the satisfaction of my own cooking epiphanies, the goofy unabashed smiles while watching the Macy's parade.
Becca invited me to her Thanksgiving. It's not exactly a family Thanksgiving, although her whole family will be there. They're all going to her sister's boyfriend's apartment in Somerville, which I'm pretty sure will be a shithole co-op kind of place. Several random musicians are also on the VIP list. The menu: some kind of apple/cranberry crisp, roasted beets (the only thing Becca cooks), and a TBA Indian dish. I'm supposed to contribute something. I really want MY meal, and can't decide on one thing. And it would be rude to bring five things, right? I'm not colonizing their Thanksgiving. In fact, if all goes well, I will sit in a corner and fold napkins or set tables or search for forks, speaking to few and dodging many.
I said I'd go, though. Did I mention that? I'm a complete dumbass.
1 comment:
The luxury of aloneness and reading time vs. ... well meaning people who love you.
Have a lovely holiday whatever you do!
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