Another Utopian Thanksgiving

If I had my druthers, my utopian Thanksgiving guest list would read like the ultimate fantasy football roster of party planning.  I would invite all the people in my life I really like, which, we all know is code for people-who-make-us-feel-good-about ourselves-when-we’re-with-them.  Because who doesn’t like to feel good on Thanksgiving?  And if we’re not feeling good by just being in the room, we might be tempted to look for other ways to feel good about ourselves, like drinking too much and/or eating stupid quantities of rich, fatty, or sweet foods.  Thank goodness Thanksgiving doesn’t revolve around drinking or eating.  Or being forced into small spaces with people we don’t feel good with.  Wait.  Hold the phone.

I would invite a few fun celebrities: Amy Sidaris, for her decorative flair; Sofia Vergara for her sizzle; Tracy Morgan would keep everyone on their toes and Alan Arkin for his dry running commentary.  I would invite my son.  He’s not a teenager, yet, so we still get along.  And maybe I would borrow a couple of especially adorable pre-schoolers and puppy dogs to curl up in my lap later on when the haze of tryptophan settles over the living room like an opium den.  I would invite my elementary school phys. ed. teacher, Miss G, but I lost touch with her years ago.  She made me feel good about my thwarted efforts on the balance beam and miserable fails at dodge ball by asking me to demonstrate the Alaman Left, which I did with finesse, during our square dancing unit.  It would be fun to see her again. 

I would invite my therapist, but that would be weird.  I would have to pay her, which would get pricey and potentially awkward at the end of the meal when it was time to hand her cash.  I know my therapist isn’t my friend but she makes me feel good about myself or at least makes me feel good about my efforts to improve and evolve.  I suppose I could slip her an envelope with a plastic container of leftover creamed onions.  Though, bound by all that pesky confidentiality, she might be a little lackluster as a dinner companion. 

I could invite some old boyfriends who where really funny and entertaining as long as I could put them all on a bus before they got so drunk that their ribaldry turned sour and they got handzy with Sofia.  And I would invite my minister and a few especially fascinating cabbies I’ve had over the years.  Nothing like a well-traveled woman-of-the-cloth and a know-it-all New York City taxi driver or three to add a little zest to the table conversation.  I suppose then the cabbies could take my ex-boyfriends back to Brooklyn.  That would work out nicely.  The celebrities would leave by limo and my therapist could give Miss G and my minister a lift home.  The kids and puppies would have to be returned before they began to melt down at the witching hour but my son could stay as long as he helps clear. 

Dinner is sure to be a whirl, but it would be lonely preparing Thanksgiving with none of my extended family there.  Alan Arkin might just be in the way whereas my dad vacuumed before holiday family events.  It would be nice to have a doddering old dude with a great sense of humor puttering around the house, but there’s no replacing my dad since he died, even with central casting’s finest.  I suppose I would miss the inside jokes and clandestine looks that my sisters and I share behind my mom’s back while she’s cooking—I must say—a consistently darn good turkey, year after year.  Although Tracy Morgan would give an incomprehensibly hilarious toast, it wouldn’t resonate the same way a few simple heartfelt words of gratitude from my brother-in-law would, especially this year now that my aunt—displaced from her home at the Jersey Shore-- lives with my Mom ever since Sandy.  Amy Sidaris is very funny, but so are my sisters, and as long as we’re on our best behavior we can usually hold out like a time-release capsule of decorum, keeping off each others’ nerves right up until keys slide into ignitions the next day. 

It’s not that I don’t like my family, I do.  I even love them.  It’s just that they’re also the triggers for just about every psycho-emotional idiosyncrasy I struggle with.  There’s no telling what might rear its ugly head when the kitchen gets too crowded or someone brings up the election.  So, I’m a bit wary.  But I’m also growing when I’m with them.  I’m learning to listen with detached compassion and not take anything personally.  I’m challenged to be patient and forgiving.  I’m learning to keep my mouth shut, walk out of the room if I need to, take three deep breaths and let it all go.  And with each Forced Family Function there’s a better understanding of where I came from, which I can use to inform where I’m going.  Heaven knows our past layers of resiliency have served us all well lately.  What’s one more?

So, perhaps the utopian Thanksgiving isn’t the answer.  With my true family I can sneak open the top button of my pants after turkey.  I can also be immensely grateful for what I have as I grope to become a better self.