I have become subtle about Thanksgiving day, humbly offering prayers of gratitude to the Lord and quietly watching the Lions get annihilated each holiday. Watching the Lions over the decades has helped with my humility. Now I look forward to the strange off Thursday in November when I get to reflect on the goodness shown to me, eat the same amount of carbohydrates as consuming thirty pizza boxes and fall asleep in the yard. Truthfully, that’s a normal Thursday for me, but in this case I get a calendar sanctioned excuse act like a somnambulate ape.
I like the idea of just taking a day with family to ponder all the blessings of the past year. When the older relatives in my family were alive enough to enjoy the annual feast, I spent the days trying to interject some thoughtful vulgarity into the proceedings. At 38, it isn’t cool any longer to dress up as Ice Cube and recite It Was A Good Day at the table. Likewise, reading Salem Kirban’s 666 aloud and hissing isn’t fun like it used to be. I merely enjoy the company of loved ones and the blessing of having enough of every good thing in life, smiling in my oddly beatific way. If I do this too much, my family worries that I’ve developed some sort of disorder and they begin to jab me with forks. One recent Thanksgiving, they even carried me to a sofa and put towels over my weirdly smiling countenance. Then they all got in their cars and drove to the movies, leaving me to be thankful alone. I didn’t care. Once gratitude and contentment with one’s life starts, there’s no use denying it. I am blessed to have a family that cares about me and the Detroit Lions. Well, I still have family.