I’m sitting on the edge of my bed opening a contraption that I’ve been influenced to buy. It’s a sleek handheld device with laser beam lights that are supposed to make me prettier. The dated packaging and the turning of the pages of the little booklet strike a chord and all of a sudden I’m a woman in the fifties reading the instructions to one of those shake yourself to death machines with the big belt that goes around the backside. Turns out, this thing is a miniature version. I rev it up and begin to maneuver it around my jawline in hopes that it will shake my jowls into an oblivion. Point being, I’m spending the night before Thanksgiving vibrating the hell out of my face with a laser beam, wondering why time is a dirty thief.
Cut to the morning of Uncle Kenny’s holiday. That’s how I’ll always frame it. I hear the rustling of cousins catching up, showing off new babies and boyfriends. I smell Aunt Lola’s perfume and I feel the sting of Mamaw and Papaw’s absence. Uncle Tim says the blessing while Kenny Jr. and I stealthily sidestep our way to the beginning of the buffet. We’re ALWAYS the first in line, no matter the occasion. I pile the offerings of my McCoy family onto my plate with slight reservation as there are sixty people left to feed. Thinking ahead, I go to the dessert table and serve myself up a heaping mess of Aunt Debbie’s inexplicably delicious cracker salad. Some poor soul will wind up scraping residue and crumbs of it from the bottom of a pyrex and it’s not going to be me. I nestle myself between my sister and my cousin Mandy and I sink my teeth into the wonder that is Uncle Kenny’s famous, butter injected turkey. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I’m safe. I’m home.
Redirect to what’s actually going on this morning. I’m still in bed. I’m listening to the clicking of keys as I write this post through tears that welled up during the above walk down memory lane. My kids are with their dads and Uncle Kenny is breaking bread with our heavenly father. We haven’t gathered on his day since his passing.
When I was in my twenties, I spent a Thanksgiving behind the counter of the little gas station at the mouth of the holler, selling scratch offs and two liters. I can’t say that I’ve ever spent one by myself. But, don’t pop the top on the pity party champagne just yet. This is a predicament of my own making. I chose, with intention, to abdicate myself from putting on makeup and preparing a side dish. A selection of those ‘friends who would step in front of a train for me” from my last post cordially invited me to their homes. I respectfully declined.
Though the transition from wife to ex-wife has delivered proper throes of solitary loathing, I’m typically, abnormally comfortable being alone. I’m a pro at losing myself to frozen pizza and a good documentary. When the house is still and quiet, the ideas that I collect in the hustle and bustle of my day to day ease themselves into fruition. My guitar gets played and self indulgent songs get written. I don’t suffer from fear of missing out. In fact, I err more on the FOGO side of things, fear of “going’ out. I love a warm bath with a side of staying in my pajamas all day.
This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful that the path I’m on never ceases to provide experience, growth and truth. I’m grateful for a moment of respite from small talk and responsibility. Excited about the incoming Bob Evans Holiday Celebration Platter that I ordered from Doordash, I reel in the convenience of living in Music City. I revel in the fact that after I gorge myself on processed bounty, I’ll go downstairs to fulfill some t-shirt orders from fans who appreciate my life’s work. I’ll do the dishes and pack my bag for Vegas.
U-turn to my space odyssey 2022 glowing, gyrating face sculptor. It’s a fad that has come and will eventually go, a relic that will die slow in a bathroom junk drawer. In the interim, I’ll gladly draw false hope from new fangled things. I’ll find ways to deaden the blow of middle aged beginnings. This won’t be the last holiday that I’ll spend in isolation and I’m ok with that. I’m confident that I’ll rock them out, fine and dandy like Dolly Parton during a hard candy Christmas. Pain has a higher purpose. I’ll wake up tomorrow, stronger and more settled in my freshly laser beamed skin. I’ll be closer to letting bygones be bygones and farther from the fear of starting over.
I’d like to invite you to use the comment section to share the ups and downs that graced you this Thanksgiving. No matter your story, your story matters. Tell it to me.
Don’t cry for me Argentina, I’m at peace and I’m mere moments away from a hot date with Bob Evans. Happy Happy Turkey Day to each and every one of you beautiful, beautiful creatures.