Well, it’s good to be back in Rochester, back from a refreshing break and an even longer and more refreshing writing hiatus. As this is the last CT issue this semester, I thought I should return from my usual doing of nothing and try to contribute something to society. I may have just doomed this article to fall short of that lofty standard.
Let us start with the first problem of this “break.” Why do teachers give us work over Thanksgiving break? Oh, wait, never mind, they don’t give us work over break, since it’s due the Tuesday we return. There is obviously plenty of time to do it all on Monday night. Every year, I stuff my bag for home with books, and every year I never open a single one. You would think, after four years, that I would have figured out that I’m a lazy, unproductive worker.
That, however, is just the tip of the iceberg. Thanksgiving break is such a frustrating break – it’s a little tease, like that girl who always smiles at you at parties, but who you will never hook up with. When you are home, you realize all you have been missing at school – unlimited food, free laundry service, personal chefs, quality toilet paper and family fits in there somewhere. Then – bam – it’s all taken away from you in a blink of an eye.
It’s a difficult adjustment, coming from college back into the real world, where you have to be up before noon. In addition, it is expected that when you do finally grace people with your presence, you will do so in respectable attire. This apparently does not include wife beaters and pajama pants. Also, it is important to note that urinating with the door open is not only inappropriate, but may be deemed a form of sexual harassment by your younger sister’s friends.
This adjustment period is most pronounced during your freshman year. You really don’t understand or appreciate how this break works. You try to see everyone from your high school and, in this mad dash to see everyone you no longer care about, you miss out on the important stuff.
Let’s be honest. This holiday is all about food. I’m talking about eating turkey until you can feel the meat all up in your lungs, mountains of mashed potatoes soaked in artery-clogging gravy, and don’t even get me started on the bliss that is stuffing. This being my first Thanksgiving during which I could drink legally, I decided a little wine was in order. Well, a couple of glasses later, I was making an ass of myself as I spilled a whole glass of red wine on my pants. I was subsequently banished back to the children’s table from whence I came.
As I sat down to enjoy the plentiful bounty laid out before me, one of my relatives destroyed my serenity by loudly pronouncing, “Happy Turkey Day, everyone.” I hate that phrase. Who the hell came up with that stupid saying – “Turkey Day?” I guarantee you it wasn’t a man. No man would name the greatest holiday known after a flightless bird.
This country is far too great for such a ludicrous name as turkey day. After all, only in America can we boldly celebrate a holiday of giving thanks to Native Americans who we soon slaughtered, raped and pillaged in return. Sometimes I wonder, between mouthfuls of turkey, whether they are stung by this bitter irony, but then the tryptophan kicks in, washing away my insecurities and signaling the beginning of my food-induced coma.
Kutcher can be reached at jkutcher@ campustimes.org.
