Holidays with the family can go in any direction. Either the experience is so dull you wish you could disappear, or so exciting (in the worst possible way) that you wish the same. I figure as long as there’s no need to call 911, then the holiday can be deemed a success.
This Thanksgiving, which was spent with my in-laws, fell somewhere between the two extremes, so we lucked out. Our decision to stay in a hotel made what’s usually a tedious chore into a fairly enjoyable mini-vacation, complete with wine-tasting and some amateur antiquing. Our actual time with family was divided into manageable chunks with plenty of space in between.
So much has been written about the inevitable family tensions that rise to the surface around this time of year. People who have nothing in common, or too much in common, are forced to spend time with each other with the expectation that everyone get along and pretend they’re happy to be there. Old resentments surface as people re-adopt the roles they were once assigned as children. Snide comments about who’s doing well and who isn’t slip into the conversation. Alcohol lubricates the dysfunctional machinery, until hostility boils over into shouting or tears, or actual blows.
In a best-case scenario, people just roll their eyes and bite their tongues until it’s safe to leave; then they go through the same charade all over again the next year.
I opted out for decades, starting when I was 20. I decided that this so-called family of mine was a farce, and that I no longer needed to play the game. I politely informed those in charge that I would not be joining them this year, thank you. Instead, I established my own tradition of cooking an elaborate dinner and inviting good friends—people I actually wanted to spend time with. The guest list changed slightly from year to year, but the common theme remained: we all chose each other’s company.
Now that our parents are old, and everyone is confronting the reality that “each time might be the last,” I’ve decided to relent. Last year, we had Thanksgiving with my parents, step-brother and his family—an experience which helped us decide to spend the holiday with my partner’s family this time. Next year—who knows what we’ll do? The rebellious brat in me would like to opt out again, but I doubt if I’d have the courage…so we’ll probably go, and like families everywhere, just pretend we’re happy to be there until it’s safe to leave—hoping and fearing that maybe there won’t be a next time.
