Despite the fact that I felt a little like microwaved end-of-life, yesterday’s gathering of friends for a traditional Thanksgiving meal lifted my spirits. The group was small—eight of us. Had it been significantly larger or smaller, the closeness of the atmosphere might not have gelled the way it did. From the perspective of a mostly-quiet observer, yesterday’s easy intimacy between people who truly enjoy one another’s company was more than just a successful holiday. It revealed the emotional structure of the concept of Thanksgiving. Neither mi novia nor I are particularly enamored of tradition, in general, but when the meal, the décor, and the people combine in just the right way—like they did yesterday—tradition takes on an almost magical aura. After spending several enjoyable hours with friends, I took a two-hour nap, followed by an hour, more or less, of semi-consciousness. During that hour, I decided to return to bed for the night. Eight o’clock. When I was younger and healthier, I would have been irrationally embarrassed by going to bed so early; youth is so damn frivolous and so lacking in wisdom!
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Sometimes, I feel like I am walking on air. Turbulent air. As if I am making my way to the front of an jet airplane’s cabin while the craft makes its way through a vicious storm. At least I can steady myself by grasping seat-backs in the airplane cabin. And I can have similar success at home by trying to stay upright in a hallway; leaning against the walls works. But when the turbulence strikes midway across an open and airy room, I have to rely on my sense of balance to avoid giving the rough air the upper hand. Thus far, my sense of balance has not failed me; and I do not expect it will. But I recognize, too, that regularly replenishing my fuel and spending it wisely…that is, eating enough and putting my muscles to regular use…are the best ways to avoid confronting turbulent air.
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Santa Claus stood in the doorway, staring at me, his trembling right hand clutching the still-holstered grip of a Glock 19. Sneezy and Grumpy crouched behind the old man’s massive legs, hiding their misplaced rage behind those two thick oak stumps clothed in red felt. Bashful, pale, breathless, and face-down on the floor behind them, did not seem to be responding to Doc’s efforts to revive him. Saliva and vomit dribbled from Dopey’s mouth, his right hand around a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey between his legs where he sat on the floor. Centrifica, Santa’s then-illicit-lover, was slowly edging out of the scene when Brad Pitt arrived, wearing his Sinbad outfit.
“Whoa! What’s the deal here? Is Bashful…dead?” Pitt’s face, usually the image of pure macho, was suddenly bleached white; his forehead oozed sweat and his whole body shivered as if he had been immersed for hours in an ice bath.
“He’s hanging on,” Santa mumbled, his eyes still fixed on me. “But if he dies, I’m gonna aerate this guy’s chest,” he continued, pointing to me. “And little miss Centrifica’s gonna get it, too!”
Obviously, Santa thought Centrifica and I had been engaged in a more than casual relationship. And he mistakenly believed two things about Bashful: that Bashful had been involved in a threesome with Centrifica and me and that Bashful was male. No matter how things worked out, this was going to be a potentially deadly situation.
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