Holidays, Schmolidays
I confess: I'm a holiday Scrooge. And it's not just the winter holidays--it's all of them. St. Patrick's Day, Halloween, and New Years? Excuses for amateurs to hit the bar and get drunk and stupid. Christmas, Hanukkah, and Easter? Seeing as I'm generally freaked out/uncomfortable with organized religion, these don't do anything for me. Valentine's Day? Gag me. The only holiday I can kind of get behind is the Fourth of July, because I've always thought it was cool to have a holiday based around blowing things up--but I want no part of any "rah rah, we love America" crap.
Which brings us to Thanksgiving. I've had a love-hate relationship with this holiday since I was eight years old. It all started when I was making handcuffs out of ponytail holders and decided that everyone coming to our house for Thanksgiving dinner must want a pair of their own. (This made perfect sense at the time, I swear. And I was eight! Ok, I was a dork, but still.) I started putting a pair on everyone's plate, and my mother, in horror, told me that people would not, in fact, want a grubby pair of handcuffs sitting on their clean plates. Feeling embarrassed and ashamed, I started crying and retreated to my room to hide in the closet for the rest of the evening. I didn't eat anything or see our guests. And so began my hatred for Thanksgiving. Every year dreaded it. I didn't like the food, didn't care about the family togetherness, and always remembered my humiliation.
Then my Freshman year of high school, just as I was starting to wonder if maybe I should grow up, stop being so stubborn, and enjoy Thanksgiving, I had a nightmare involving Thanksgiving, orange juice, and AIDS (don't ask). Somehow, in my 14-year-old brain, this renewed my disgust with the holiday and made me dread the entire month of November.
It wasn't until college that I started to appreciate Thanksgiving. It was nice, I realized, to come home to family, friends, and non-cafeteria food. I started looking forward to this time of year again, eagerly anticipating the warm fuzzy holiday feeling. Until two years ago, when illness struck my family. My parents and brother were supposed to come visit me in New York, and we had planned a lovely family holiday weekend. But my brother got sick--really sick--and the trip was cancelled. He went home to get better, and I stayed in New York, not really knowing what to do with myself. I was on my own, and depressed, and it was horrible. Suddenly I wasn't dreading the holiday because of childish nightmares or stubbornness. This was real. And even though everyone's fine now, I can't help but think that I was right the first time. Thanksgiving isn't a good holiday. Sure, it can mean family and friends and togetherness, but it brings with it stress and high expectations that are rarely satisfied.
So this year I'm doing my own thing. A friend is coming over, and we're having an anti-Thanksgiving. No turkey, no tofurky, no stuffing, no cranberries, and no stress. Just friends, wine, and pie. Just the way I like it.
Which brings us to Thanksgiving. I've had a love-hate relationship with this holiday since I was eight years old. It all started when I was making handcuffs out of ponytail holders and decided that everyone coming to our house for Thanksgiving dinner must want a pair of their own. (This made perfect sense at the time, I swear. And I was eight! Ok, I was a dork, but still.) I started putting a pair on everyone's plate, and my mother, in horror, told me that people would not, in fact, want a grubby pair of handcuffs sitting on their clean plates. Feeling embarrassed and ashamed, I started crying and retreated to my room to hide in the closet for the rest of the evening. I didn't eat anything or see our guests. And so began my hatred for Thanksgiving. Every year dreaded it. I didn't like the food, didn't care about the family togetherness, and always remembered my humiliation.
Then my Freshman year of high school, just as I was starting to wonder if maybe I should grow up, stop being so stubborn, and enjoy Thanksgiving, I had a nightmare involving Thanksgiving, orange juice, and AIDS (don't ask). Somehow, in my 14-year-old brain, this renewed my disgust with the holiday and made me dread the entire month of November.
It wasn't until college that I started to appreciate Thanksgiving. It was nice, I realized, to come home to family, friends, and non-cafeteria food. I started looking forward to this time of year again, eagerly anticipating the warm fuzzy holiday feeling. Until two years ago, when illness struck my family. My parents and brother were supposed to come visit me in New York, and we had planned a lovely family holiday weekend. But my brother got sick--really sick--and the trip was cancelled. He went home to get better, and I stayed in New York, not really knowing what to do with myself. I was on my own, and depressed, and it was horrible. Suddenly I wasn't dreading the holiday because of childish nightmares or stubbornness. This was real. And even though everyone's fine now, I can't help but think that I was right the first time. Thanksgiving isn't a good holiday. Sure, it can mean family and friends and togetherness, but it brings with it stress and high expectations that are rarely satisfied.
So this year I'm doing my own thing. A friend is coming over, and we're having an anti-Thanksgiving. No turkey, no tofurky, no stuffing, no cranberries, and no stress. Just friends, wine, and pie. Just the way I like it.
posted by Cheryl @ 11:06 AM
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