It's become so familiar it's impossible to imagine Thanksgiving without it. The New England-y inn with the Christmas tree all set up, twinkling boughs of holly lining the staircase, extended families taking photographs in front of the fireplace, while their clothes still fit. The long anticipated prelude to the long anticipated day of stuffing ourselves silly.
At my cousins' house, we have heated debates over baked brie and crudites and pigs in blankets. Smoked turkey or fried? Whom does the newest baby resemble? (She is the only one in the room who can carry off a bald head and a double chin.) Is it appropriate to laugh when a two year old slips, mid-tantrum, in the puddle emanating from his own juice box? I anticipate and fend off the questions about my dating life the way my youngest daughter used to with questions about where she wanted to go to college. Is there a man in your life? No. What happened to. . . ? Gone. I thought you. . . . Once. No more. Never. Have I shown you a picture of my dog?
The turkey hangover hits almost immediately, followed closely by the sharp pains and the bloat. After decades of the same routine, we have an epiphany. Next year, we will wear sweats.
In the New England-y inn the next morning, the extended families filter into the lobby again, far more interested in coffee than photographs. Everybody seems a bit more subdued as they sink into the chairs, recovering. I marvel at the ones who can eat the apple donuts and the other sugary treats. My jeans barely have room to accommodate my desperate gulps of caffeine.
Eventually, we disperse in a thousand different directions, vowing to never eat again, exhausted, but surprised, somehow, at how quickly it all seems to pass. Relief tinged with regret. Wondering how we can all do this year after year, wondering how we could not.
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