I'd barely finished the last of the Halloween candy and here I sit at my in-laws', the McSorley's, Thanksgiving table. It's a day to reflect and to give thanks, hence the name of the holiday. And according to Carl, to get laid. I don't know much about his personal life but that seems like a strange association to make. Anyway, I admit that I have much to be thankful for. Primarily for my amazing wife, Megan, and for Jillian. 

From as far back as I can recall, Thanksgiving has been the most revered American secular holiday. It's like the New Year holiday, but with much less alcohol, fewer skimpy cocktail dresses, and usually no party hats and noisemakers. At least that's been my experience. It's a time for family gatherings where we show appreciation for our loved ones and take inventory of all the things that truly enrich our lives and hold meaning. 

For a great many Americans, Thanksgiving signals the kick-off to the Christmas shopping season. In fact, many families schedule their Thanksgiving dinners for 10:00 AM so they can chow down their turkey, toss their paper plates and plasticware into the trash, and race out to the malls and the big box stores to take advantage of colossal Black Friday deals. Who wants to spend time with the grandparents when you can rush the store like a gang of rabid barbarians to purchase a 65-inch 4K TV for only $300? The aptly named Black Friday is the yin to Thanksgiving's yang, the holiday's contradictory opposite. Whether you're thankful for a day to spend with your family or grateful for a day to run up your credit card bills, all depends upon your interpretation of giving thanks.

"Did you hear anything from Brenna?" Megan asks her mom.

"She called last night to say she wouldn't be joining us today."

"Again," Megan sighs. 

"Where is Aunt Brenna?" Jillian asks.

"She said she's gonna spend a quiet weekend with Yasmine in a cabin upstate."

"Who's Yasmine?" 

Megan responds, "Aunt Brenna's girlfriend."

Jilly-bean says, "Can you pass the stuffing?" 

"Where do you fit all that food in that skinny little body of yours?" Megan's mom chuckles.

"You want some, Dad?" Jillian pushes the stuffing bowl in my direction.

"I can't eat another thing," I say. "Everything was delicious. As usual."

In keeping with the Robiski/McSorley family tradition, I'm jam-packed with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and a dozen assorted Thanksgiving staples, testing the capabilities of my digestive system. My female in-laws clear the table. Megan's mom takes my plate. 

"I've got this. You go watch some football with the boys." 

Before excusing myself from the table, I gulp a half-glass of red wine. I lost count of the glasses of wine I consumed at dinner, which puts me on schedule for a raging headache in a few hours. But hey, it's Thanksgiving, right? Be thankful for Tylenol.

I trudge through the living room and make my way down to the man cave where several male members of the family stare at a large screen TV, engrossed in a football game. Megan's dad sprawls on a leather lounge chair, his jaw hanging open, snoring loudly.

"What's the score?" I ask out of courtesy. I don't know which teams are playing, not that it would matter much to me.

Megan's brother, Nicholas brushes pretzel crumbs from his neatly-cropped beard and replies, "Dallas six, Miami nothing." His cousin, Robert, stares straight ahead. He doesn't nod, he doesn't smile, he barely blinks.

I find an unoccupied chair where I park my butt. I pick up a People Magazine from the coffee table. I slowly flip through pictures of middle-aged has-been TV stars spilling out of inappropriately tiny bikinis. I hope that someone will make an effort to engage in friendly conversation. Instead, the only sounds I hear are the football game, the women upstairs, Megan's dad's snoring, and the boys chowing down on pretzels and sipping beer.

I decide to get the ball rolling. "Geez, that's just terrible about William."

Nothing from either Nicholas or Robert. They continue grazing from a bowl of pretzels.

"Nearly died from his heart attack. With no warning, right?"

Football crickets.

"He was what? Forty-five maybe?"

"Just turned forty," mumbles Nicholas, never taking his eyes from the TV. I turn a few pages of the magazine then pat my gut.

"I gotta start taking better care of myself. Yup. Ate wa-a-a-y too much."

Pretzel munching continues.

"I'd love to set fire to that TV."

It's as though they're behind a thick wall of soundproof glass. Absolutely no reaction.

"Wouldn't that be great to just throw the damned thing out the window?"

With their glazed eyes fixed on the TV, their hands mechanically bring pretzels to their mouths. They watch as the game clock displays 1:26... 1:25... 1:24...

These two don't understand that as the clock winds down toward double zeroes, so, too, are their lives ticking away. For the football players, the ticking clock brings on a sense of urgency. But for my brother-in-law and his cousin, it's as though they believe that for them, time will never run out. These two eating machines are going to live forever.

                                                                               ######

The following Monday, I'm back in my therapist's office. Dr. Lindbrutten makes a note on the legal pad he holds against his crossed leg.

"You find it alarming, Mr. Robiski, that a 40-year-old man with no previous known health issue dies of a sudden cardiac arrest."

"I do."

"And you're also alarmed that your brother-in-law and this other family member had no reaction, whatsoever."

"I wouldn't say alarmed."

"Disturbed?"

"Don't you think that's unusual?"

"It's not important what I think. What do you think?"

I look up at the clock on the wall. The numbers flip from 12:25 to 12:26.

I move to the edge of my chair and say, "I think it's time for me to go."

"That's a very hostile gesture. Don't you see how all these things you're telling me are related?"

"This isn't that hammer thing again."

"Let's forget about the hammer, Phil. Do you see a connection? You don't mind if I call you Phil?"

"Nope."

The doctor leafs through the pages of his tablet.

"Some of these things you've been sharing with me are very impactful."

"That's not even a word."

"What?"

"Impactful. Some corporate clown probably made it up to sound important. It's a bullshit word like ideation and inboxing. People shouldn't be allowed to use words like that. 

"And this makes you angry?"

"No. Well, maybe,... yeah. Not angry."

"You sound angry."

"I would say more frustrated than angry."

"And this frustration then manifests itself as anger."

"I don't really feel angry."

"Ignoring your anger doesn't make it go away."

                                                                      ######

6: 19 PM. I enter the kitchen and set my briefcase on the counter. I wrap my arms around my wife and she gives me a much-needed kiss.

"Another bad session?"

"He baits me. He does everything he can to piss me off and then tells me I have anger issues."

A startlingly loud noise comes from the living room. Megan calls out, "Jillian? Are you okay?"

"Fine."

She rests her forehead against mine. "If he's not helping you, we can find another doctor."

"I don't know, Megs. Maybe I am angry."

"You don't seem angry to me."

Jillian enters. "Can you guys stop kissing for a minute? I think the Christmas tree might have accidentally fell over."

Megan responds, "All by itself?"

"It's hard to tell."

                                                                                            #######

Later that evening, Megan and I decorate the Christmas tree in our traditional outfits, she wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, and me in sweats and T-shirt. Christmas carols play. Megs nudges me and gestures to the couch where Jilly-bean lies sound asleep, clutching an ornament in her little hand.

Megan says, "Oh, by the way," and produces a piece of paper from the pocket of her robe. It's the ape walking the dog pic. "Nice touch." She grins.

I play dumb with an exaggerated what-do-you-mean expression.

She hangs another ornament. 

"You know what we should do next year?" I say.

"Buy a pet dog for our monkey?"

"We should go out--"

"And cut down our own tree. You say that every year."

"Yeah, I guess I do."

Megan yawns. I offer a suggestion.

"I'm gonna carry her up to bed. Why don't you open a bottle of wine and we can..."

I nuzzle her with a suggestive chuckle. She gives me a quick kiss.

To drive the point home I continue, "There's something about Christmas trees that always gets my sap flowing."

"That could lead to sticky hands." She grins.

Oh, man. This has epic potential. Please, Jilly-bean, please don't wake up.

I scoop up my little daughter and make my way toward the stairs. Megan leans in and kisses her. I carefully lug my girl up to her room, nearly clunking her head on the bedroom doorframe, and tuck her into bed. Miraculously, her eyes remain closed. She's had a long day. 

All systems go. Wearing a mission accomplished grin on my face, I tiptoe downstairs ready for some yuletide cheer when I spot Megan sound asleep on the couch. 

I could wake her but obviously, her heart won't be in it. I yawn. My God, it's almost 10:30. How did we get so old?