I KNOW EVERYONE is supposed to think about Thanksgiving before it happens and be consciously grateful prior to the feast, but I always reflect on my blessings afterwards, when we’ve eaten our fill and must begin the hard work of getting back into the shape we were never in in the first place. This year, through no fault of my own, I actually didn’t eat too much. I tried to, and I thought I did, but then, during coffee, I turned to my friend Hamilton, who was visiting with his family, and said, “Hey, I think I can still breathe involuntarily.” His eyes were lidded, and his head lolled like a lion that’s been tagged, and he burped a gravy bubble and said, “Good to hear.”
Is it my imagination, or were there more people than ever this year saying, “Now, folks, let’s not overdo it on Thanksgiving?” Because, like Warren Oates in “The Wild Bunch,” I wanted to say, “Why the hell not?” I mean, come on, already. I spend every day of the year picking hot dogs out of their buns at Little League games and eating Whopper meat like cookies at Burger King (and feeling like a perfect idiot about it, too, especially to the Mexican family sitting next to us wondering what in the world I’m doing). Why can’t we have one day of the year when we eat all the bread and potatoes we want? My body processes carbohydrates and starch like wood chips, and even a few glasses of restorative drag me down the next day like unfaced obligations. Ah, gone are the days of reckless abandon. It’s not youth that’s wasted on the young, folks, it’s smoking and drinking.
