You may be wondering how I got here, hunched over on the bathroom floor, again. I know I am. The cold tile cooling my overheated engine, just like it did last year when I swore it would be the last time.
Just like the year before that, too, when I was sure this childlike gluttony had maxed out. An annual Thanksgiving tradition of shame: the glazed ceramic, merely a Band-Aid, to immediately help but useless to stop it from happening again in the future.
I was gonna Marie Kondo the feast, only eat the things that sparked joy in me. Goodbye to mashed potatoes and the rolls and the green beans. A probable farewell to the ice cream, a la mode-ing the shit out of those beautiful pies. But for sure, no salad. I think I read on Federalist.com, that salad on Thanksgiving was ruining the meaning of the original Thanksgiving, and thus, the real America. Though, I am also not sure if they would be thrilled that a red-blooded American man was taking his Thanksgiving cues from a Japanese lady. Alas.
Problem is, what if I have so many things that spark joy? Maybe Marie Kondo’s black heart does not have the same capacity for love and joy as mine. Sorry, but I won’t apologize for loving too hard. After all, I’m American.
First and foremost, a cornucopia of fuck yous to Uncle Frank. It was Uncle Frank who suggested using the buddy system to help hold each other accountable, and keep us paced to get to the Thanksgiving finish line. Not unlike how I was overserved on gravy, Frank never had a chance once the red wine was uncorked. And much like his front teeth and lips, our best laid plans were tarnished by the tannins. I backed the wrong man for the job.
I appreciate ambition, but a little heads up would have been nice. There’s a reason you don’t see hurdles thrown in at mile 20 of a marathon. The training program and game plan had no chance when Lisa added a corn pudding and a sweet potato pie to the dinner course. And I know it’s not a good look to complain about offering cornbread and crescent rolls together when I went back for seconds on each of them, but, come on!
I didn’t know it at the time, but Cousin Desi, the way you flaunted your veganism forced my hand. Forced it over and over again to keep loading turkey and stuffing forkfuls up to my mouth. That bird died for our betterment, and it’s actually more disrespectful to not eat it down to the bones. That’s more than your fakenews Impossible Whopper can say. Maybe if you saw what Bernie’s Thanksgiving plate looked like, you’d come around.
I had back up plans that were supposed to work too! I wore a belt that I wouldn’t be able to loosen! I was going to hit capacity and stop, like a discotheque nightclub. But just as those clubs do, we started adjusting to a one-in, one-out policy. Of course that got out of hand quickly, which is why this bathroom is now my not so temporary habitat.
This is my affliction, the American predicament of plenty. No let me wallow in it. Maybe I’ll feel better by dessert.