Conversations. Lots of them. And food. Lots of it. Everywhere, for five days, conversations and food.
By the end of the Thanksgiving weekend I was tired. Am. Present tense. It’s Sunday evening.
But, hey, everybody’s gotta eat. And once a year, everybody’s gotta get together and eat turkey and pies and sweet potatoes, and drink beer and scotch and bourbon. And so on. That’s cool, I can dig that. And I like talking to people, too. Really. I do.
I’m just saying: motherfucking sensory overload.
So where was I?
First Thanksgiving home–here in New England–in seven years. High school reunion. Everyone is in town. No. Not everyone. Just most everyone. This I attribute to the fact that most everyone I know here–or used to know here, really–has family here, and most everyone I used to know here hasn’t started hosting Thanksgiving dinners yet, hasn’t made their own little families yet. Which isn’t, I hasten to add, a knock on them. Minimal cooking and great food (this year) versus a day spent laboring in the kitchen to get that great food (years past)–most people would opt for the former. Sometimes there’s nothing like being fed.
Flipside: There’s nothing like being fed, until there is.
I repeated myself, or felt like I repeated myself, the whole time. By the end I was sick of hearing myself talk, but I still talked, because sometimes I talk when I’m anxious, and by the end I was anxious. In retrospect, I could’ve just started talking like a pirate at one point and run with it. “Yarr, here be my plans for the future! Ar, and here is what the matey has been up to!” Only it wasn’t Talk Like A Pirate Day, or whatever the shit. Not once over the weekend did that holiday occur. So I would’ve been screwed anyway. And really, it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea, anyway. I already felt like I was playing off a script.
Don’t get me wrong. I like Thanksgiving.