millennial content vol. iv: thanksgiving

Tradition doesn’t die because change is hard. We drive to my grandparents as I think this. My thoughts, as usual, scatter inside my head, each competing for frontal lobe occupation. This time it’s not my fault.

We head west as dusk sets, fading sun beams crashing through pine trees. A harsh, unwelcomed yet natural strobe light effect. This is nature’s rave, its turnup, its music makes me lose control beat drop. I’m not a fan. I lost my sunglasses so I lack protection is why.

Another attempt at subterfuge: I didn’t lose them. She still has them.

Relationship with Grandpa changed ever since he started hugging me. Family members swear he embraced me when I was younger. I don’t remember so it doesn’t count. All I recall are the handshakes.

The offering of a firm, former military man hand met with whatever I decided to do that year. Some years I tried impressing by squeezing hard, others I was awkward, my hand clammy and nervous because I wanted to impress but wasn’t sure how.

What I’m trying to say is there’s less space between us now. But he still doesn’t hug Dad, his son. Dad swears it doesn’t bother him.

We repeat the same activities as usual: eating, golfing, arguing, not-so-subtle criticisms from elders of How We Choose To Live Our Lives, more eating, everyone trying not to drink too much in front of Grandma, miscommunication, shopping, Republican family members badmouthing Democrats/dissuasion efforts to convert me from liberalism, eating out, more golfing, more shopping, me not saying much, me hiding away, me raiding Grandpa’s liquor cabinet when everyone falls asleep and watching movies.

But I savor the deviations. For example, like me drinking unidentifiably aged brandy instead of the usual Jameson. (It is knock-you-on-your-ass strong. Military commissary stickers still adorn the bottle.) Or mini-croissants instead of rolls at Thanksgiving dinner. Or how Grandpa’s eyes betray him, double-vision striking him randomly. Or my best friend calling to share ‘important’ gossip about other friends. Or how I saw my aunt’s house for the first time this year (too convoluted to explain). Or—

I’m not sure how this became so personal. It wasn’t my intention. Thanksgiving was sweet but mostly the same. I didn’t mind it too much.

Then capitalism destroyed everything. Destroyed is harsh (though probably true). Replace ‘disrupted’ for ‘destroyed’ in that previous-previous sentence. Readers will be okay with that.

We shop Black Friday. I meet Jimbo Fisher’s real estate agent in a checkout line. This sparks a college football debate. Me vs. other (older) women. They believe SEC is best, but pander to me, saying FSU should’ve joined. They mock the ACC’s academic achievements. I join in. We become the superior ones now.

Lunch at a tourist trap. Margaritaville. No need to explain further. A gorgeous view over the inlet. Ships pass in and out of view. White sandy beaches, symbols of purity. Water glistens. More nature turnup, but like a lit pool party.

The iridescence blinds me. Thoughts don’t scatter but jam. A disenfranchised mob forms behind my eyes. Connective fury courses through the crowd. They charge toward the back of my head through three squeaky revolving doors. Two of them keep snagging. More structural damage is caused.

I openly worry I have photophobia; I don’t reveal a hangover lingers. My stepmom asks where my sunglasses went. She bought them in New York for me. Did I leave them at home? In my car? Yes, yes I did, I hurriedly reply. She doesn’t need to know.

An eventual retreat to my parents’ time-share. They don’t stay with Grandma and Grandpa on these trips. Just me.

I sit alone on the beach, drinking beer. I watch the sunset, taking pictures because I’m a millennial. Rehash the internal debate if sunrises or sunsets are better. I stare straight into the sun. It doesn’t bother me. The sun sets, the day ends.

At night alone, laying, watching TV in the basement living room. I remember a previous thought. Grandma’s couch: my biggest fear and fantasy. As sleep overtakes me, I wonder why I hate the middle ground.