Giving thanks for bar hopping

Thanksgiving’s come and gone again. For many of us it was a typical match to everyone else’s. We all over-ate the same foods, watched the same stuff on TV, engaged in the same rituals and it was generally the same as it was in years before.

For many, Thanksgiving is a gathering of relatives we’ve purposely avoided the rest of the year. It’s a practice in self-restraint; avoiding those inevitable, toxic debates over public policy, football, parenting and career paths.

It’s that awkwardly strained trip around the table in which everyone takes turns saying what they’re thankful for while the rest look on in silent, seething judgment.

It’s the old jokes, a houseful of bloated, irritated adults and exhausted, cranky children, and it’s often an anxious waiting game.

We desperately hope someone gets the courage to pour themselves the first drink that allows the rest of us to start enjoying ourselves without looking like some black sheep rabble-rouser in front of grandma.

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