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I’ve never liked Thanksgiving. In fact, for a few years during my twenties, I hated Thanksgiving. First, I don’t like Turkey. It’s dry. Very dry. Tastes like a sponge. Feels like a sponge. Seems to suck the moisture from the bottom of the esophagus—just like a sponge. I never truly understood the reason behind the holiday either. For what exactly are we giving thanks? Stealing the country from its rightful owners?

Politics, history and gastronomy aside, Thanksgiving really provides an excuse to see family, to reunite. However, that opportunity has turned into an obligation (and as with all obligations, a burden). I have a very close relationship with my family and see them all of the time (thankfully), so I don’t really need an excuse or special day. Besides, Thanksgiving, with its four, sometimes even five, days off from work, provides a great opportunity for travel. Imagine, instead of sitting around, gorging yourself with dry and strangely soporific Turkey, you took off on a trip to Europe. Imagine spending those four or five days in Paris (I did that one year… quietly slipped town on Tuesday and spent the whole holiday in Paris… awesome!)

Lately though, I can’t shake the nagging preciousness of time. I think—no, I fear that every day may be someone’s last. What if I never spend another Thanksgiving with so and so? Sure, nothing special about spending a Thursday in November, after all, if I don’t see him or her this Thursday, I will next. I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting older and sentimental or sappy. Or maybe a full group, the whole family together, just creates a special environment. I don’t know, but I just couldn’t buy that ticket to Paris this year. At least I love Pumpkin Pie.

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