This has been one of the stranger Thanksgiving Days I’ve ever seen. Not the worst, but sheesh.
Jamie’s parents, after 20+ years of divorce, have become an item again. My initial response to the news is too scandalous for family viewing. Major shock. It’s not like the Berlin Wall, but their relationship alternated between cordial and bitter and back again. And when they decided to come here for Thanksgiving–as a couple–that kinda blew our feeble li’l minds.
Jamie got me really keyed up about it a few weeks earlier, hinting–more like threatening–that they might get upset and blame me when we tell them about the bankruptcy thing. The first time she brought it up, it made sense. No one would be thrilled at the news. And then she kept going on about it, repeatedly pointing out that I should expect trouble, that they’re bound to blame me for it, on and on. Three or four iterations later, she wondered why I was so tense. (Sometimes I wonder if she thinks tactical nukes are bombs with payloads of tactful plutonium.)
And when the Talk actually came, the worst they did was shrug and sigh. If anything they minimize the hell out of it: “Lots of people file for bankruptcy.” They were very sympathetic, even to me.
Damn…I wish my parents were that supportive. They would’ve beaten the bejeezus out of me, crucified me, and told me to repaint the planks I was nailed onto while I was up there anyway. And then my mother would try to badger me into being an air conditioner technician again.
Still, not the worst Thanksgiving I ever had. That award goes to my father, circa 1986. He did everything short of throwing the turkey into the street and screaming that my family didn’t deserve it. He did do the latter, though.
I remember when holidays used to be fun. Then again, I still remember what it was like to be six months old.
People have this attitude that, after a certain age, you’re not entitled to enjoy yourself anymore. Work, work, work. Push, push, push. You give. Everyone else takes. Nobody says thanks and everyone says, “What have you done for me lately?” People laugh when you complain of weariness, fatigue, or feeling unfulfilled. “What did you expect?” they say.
“To be totally honest, I expected to be dead by the time I was 30.” That’s my usual response. Of course I’m the tasteless SOB who dares say what I really feel.
If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to feel something else. That’s the funny thing.