“Thanksgiving only comes once a year.” How true that is! How true, and how sweet. But you know what? Waiting for Thanksgiving is boring.
Every year, the Georgetown campus becomes a wasteland for the four-to-five day weekend when thousands upon thousands of Hoyas clear out for points west, south, north, and possibly even east (for you European exchange students … but wait, you don’t even celebrate Thanksgiving. Do you even know what a pilgrim is? Jesus Christ.)
But forget family, it’s your pets that are calling you home. Pets, pets pets, pets. We both know that you’ll spend more time talking to them than you will your Republican uncle and more time talking to your Republican uncle about your pets than not talking to your pets. How true it is! How sweet and how true. True, unlike Grampa’s war stories. Grampa was a coward.
If you’re like me, then when you’re sitting down with your family to stuff your face with burned animal … you’re not like me at all. Because instead of going home, I spend Thanksgiving with a group of my closest vegan friends, which is so much better than a normal Thanksgiving. You wouldn’t understand. Actually, I don’t even understand it because I’m not vegan and neither are my friends. But from the way people who are vegans and who have a group of close vegan friends describe their Thanksgivings; it sounds like a four-day, hyperconsensual tofu-orgy.
But back to boring old you. Your relatives all want to hear about school and, for the fifth time, what you’re studying. They’ll want to pinch your cheek and show you where the moose bit them.
The rest of the weekend will be spent playing touch football, getting drunk with your friends from high school and realizing that there are irreconcilable differences between the house rules for beer pong at your respective institutions of higher learning. Don’t worry about it, they are losers and high school is stupid.
Then suddenly you’ll be at the airport, ready to return to Washington D.C., and you’ll wonder where the time went, and everyt – wait. Did you remember to hook up with your boyfriend or girlfriend from senior year of high school? There’s still time. Get off the plane, call your parents and say the flight was overbooked. They’ll assume it’s the airline’s fault, and one way or another, you’ll get another ticket. So cab it over to his or her house and take care of business.
Done? Good. Where was I? Everything will seem strange and foreign when you touch down at Reagan, or Dulles, or, god forbid, BWI. You’ll head to class on Monday, like the rest of us, knowing all the while in the back of your mind that it’s just a couple of weeks until winter break
