On Thanksgiving, like many other families, we fulfill the one obligation of the holiday: that we lazily go around the table and name one thing that we’re thankful for. Because there were only three of us and we were hungry, this requirement was filled quickly and without much thought.
I mean, it’s kind of hard to concentrate when food is right there and the year has really been shite.
I was in my pain cave—I mean, on my morning ride—this morning when I discovered a deep thankfulness for the recovery interval. While I was hunched over my handlebars and using precious gulps of air to curse the instructor, I also realized how lucky I was that I had the equipment and general mobility required to try and spin my way to death 5-7 times a week.
Here are some other things that I’m thankful for:
Friends who infuse vodka with chai spice and then deliver fully-formed and terribly potent cocktails to my doorstep.
Ghastly Christmas pajamas in stretchy fabrics.
Dogs that will snuggle you, because your tween is too cool for that and tries to punch you in the lady bits whenever you suggest it.
Husbands who never forget to put in a BevMo order and always do the dishes.
Curbside pickup. Enough said.
Other friends who are always game for inappropriate virtual game night. (See what I did there?)
Family who understands that this is a fucking pandemic and that, god willing, we’ll all be around for another holiday season, so no… we don’t need to get all butt-hurt about skipping one holiday cycle together. (Proud of you guys… sniff… <insert air hug>)
My new house, which is mostly keeping us from wanting to kill each other on the daily.
More than 80 million voters who were capable of seeing sense.
The infinite patience and empathy of front-line workers, teachers, and first responders, with a bonus shot out to scientists with huge brains and big Pharma budgets.
2020 is the shittiest year that I hope to ever experience. It’s only tolerable because of the internet, takeout from my favorite restaurants, and the humans in my life that also think Chad is a ridiculous name.
I have high hopes that the second half of 2021 will be filled with late fall cookouts and tons of in-person shenanigans. But not now. Be safe, folks. Be good to yourselves and each other, wear a mask, and, because it’s always solid advice, call your mom.
