Kid's Table

Strange to me how blogging requires a certain glimmer of illusiveness. You never know who's reading... maybe that's part of the baby (meaning small) drama of it all. Nevertheless, I'll write another.

I don't think I've ever written from home. But it's Sunday night, I have a beverage (naturally, as it's part of my blogging ritual) and it's quiet. It's been a quiet weekend.

Thanksgiving was strange. There's no other possible adjective that I can conjure that sounds as "right" as 'strange.'

I'm 24. I still feel like I should be sitting at the kid's table. I'm not living with my parents this year, so I drove to and from their house Thursday. I didn't wake up and eat cinnamon rolls or watch the abhorrently boring parade. I didn't fall asleep on the couch and my mom didn't wake me up and tell me to go to bed.

I helped Rachel Barnard, the bestie, cook from her apartment. I made green been casserole, which is now in my refrigerator and smells like death, and Rachel put together some jello-frozen thing which I really can't live without. It was the first year we've made food together. First year she had a husband in the other room.

Her sister was there. Her sister's boyfriend was there. And by the end of the night, it was firmly decided in my mind that I have never felt so fifth wheel in my entire life.

It was one of the first Thanksgivings where I felt very, very alone.

Probably sounds like I'm whining. I'm not. Those were simply my recollections of the day and further, slap-in-the-face proof of the realities of age, young as they may be.

I'll probably still want to sit at the kid's table when I'm 45.