My Worst Thanksgiving

I would imagine that for most people this would entail something like a massive family feud that lasts decades or a burnt turkey that took off your eyebrows and almost your whole house with it. Maybe the Worst Thanksgiving heralds back to childhood when the world was so unbelievably intolerable because there were so many grown ups who you were supposedly related to (though you had never seen them before) and they all ignored the kids table once that bottle of wine was opened. Maybe they've all been terrible and you just skip that holiday now.

For me the Worst Thanksgiving wasn't hard to pinpoint. It was 2 weeks ago. And actually, everything pertaining to Thanksgiving itself was great. The food was delicious, the family I ate with was fantastic and reminded me of my own. I even took home some leftovers for the weekend that were devoured at my stomach's earliest convenience.

But then that was it.

I left after dinner on Thursday and went back to my apartment...and suddenly all of my Thanksgiving/weekend festivities were over. On freaking Thursday night. It was just me and Season 3 of Arrow. So I did the only logical thing I could do: throw a pity party and clean my apartment.

To be fair, it didn't start out as a pity party. It was more like a "It's totally ok that I'm all alone this entire weekend while everyone else is with their family/friends! I'll just clean my apartment and feel good about asserting my independence on the world!" So I tuned into the Christmas radio station, put on a pair of sweatpants (because Thanksgiving, duh), and I set out to make my rented space my home. 

Christmas music is a tricky little monster. Even the most cheerful or cliche or overplayed songs can send you down memory lane ("Holy crap, that was hilarious when Laura made that lip sync video to All I Want for Christmas is You!!"). You start out joyously dancing around and singing with Andy Williams (It really IS the most wonderful time of the year!), but before you know it, the next song is "I'll be Home for Christmas"

And you're sitting on your kitchen floor

Holding the pictures you were hanging on your refrigerator (Look how happy I was...)

And you start to cry.

Of course when I say you, I totally mean me, I was dancing, I was looking at my favorite pictures from the past 3 years of my life, and I was sucker punched by the sad sentimentality of "I'll be Home for Christmas". There wasn't even any alcohol involved! How much of a stereotype do you think I am? That song is real, y'all.

This was my thought progression as I sat on my kitchen floor listening to the saddest Christmas song ever bar only Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas:

1) Hey! I'll be home for Christmas! It's so true!

2) Home...I wonder what game they're playing right now...

3) [Looking at my pictures] I can't believe it's already been more than 2 years since graduating from college. I was so close with *insert name. I should call *insert name. But not right now because *insert name is freaking eating with their freaking family for the whole dang weekend.

4) [If ooonlyyy in myyy dreeeeeams!] I am doomed to be alone! Flow, you beautiful river of tears! Just not on this picture, I really like it.

The song ended. And the cup of holiday cheer was half empty and draining. I even wondered how long I could sit on the floor before I would start to lose respect for myself. But instead of answering myself, I resolved to get up. I thought of my poor mother and how heartbroken she would be if I called her (after that brief mom-joy moment of "My 24 year old baby needs me!") because there would be nothing she could do to bring me home faster. Then I had a realization of how proud my mom would be (and is) of me. Not because of the crying on the floor thing, that's just embarrassing. But she would be proud to have raised a daughter who was crazy enough and gutsy enough to take an all-in chance in my life even without having all the answers.

And that quickly led to me thinking about one day if I have a daughter, I would want her to be just brave enough and passionate enough and crazy enough and unstoppable enough to feel like she can take these illogical, empowering steps in her life for the sake of being true to herself.

I would be ashamed to tell my daughter about the Thanksgiving I sat on the kitchen floor and cried...if it ended there. But one day, I can tell my daughter the story of how I took a chance on myself and got up off the floor and resolved to live my life instead of waiting for it to start.