Thanksgiving is a lovely dinner. It's the only time I've had "dinner" in the middle of the day, save for when I went to visit my great-aunt and -uncle in Idaho. They called lunch "dinner" and dinner "supper" because lunch was always so much bigger than dinner in their home. This Thanksgiving I got to eat at the big kids' table, because it was that, the newlyweds table (more on that later...), or being squished between my sisters and my bratty cousin Christian, whom I've never liked since he poured orange soda on my white dress when I was, like, eight.
My mom is a Weight Watchers' success story, my dad just joined, my aunt is a Weight Watchers' leader, and my grandma is doing...something, I guess...so you can imagine the big kids' dinner topic. That's right--points. How many points is this roll worth? How many points do you think the potatoes have? Do leftovers have more points than normal food? I could have ripped my hair out, it was so tedious.
"All right, this is Thanksgiving. I don't want to hear another mention of 'points'--I just want to eat," I say, finally snapping. Where was the usual family gossip: who's had a baby? when is Aaron getting married? where are Grandma and Grandpa traveling to next week? That sort of thing.
"Someday you'll appreciate how fast your metabolizism is right now," Grandma says, as if the fact that I don't want everything on plate scored means I don't take care of myself. This is not true; I do take care of myself, for the most part. I exercise regularly--I spent an hour and a half the day before sparring my friend, Josh, and teaching a martial arts class. I love food with a gluttonous lusty passion, but I normally don't eat a lot, if anything at all. Why? Because I'm too poor to afford a lot of food. Yes, I have genetics in my favor, and I exercise, but frankly, I'm too poor to be fat.
I bring this up, and make a circle with my thumbs and fingers touching to indicate how much I usually eat, but I don't press it because my mom hates me telling people I'm poor. I think it's shames her more than it does me--I'm nineteen and a college student living away from home--I'm supposed to be poor. Even here at home I don't eat more than one serving, because my stomach has shrunk so far that I can't handle it. Gone are the days that I had an extra stomach in each of my long legs. My protest is enough to get them to stop talking about it for about ten, maybe twenty minutes tops.
So, the newlyweds table--I'm not one of them. That's what really gets my dad, I think. I'll be twenty in May. That's how old my sister-in-law was when she married my brother. I still haven't been kissed, let alone have a boyfriend. I date, as much as there's opportunity for that in Cedar, but guys aren't exactly throwing themselves over me, and I find it rather degrading to have to chase after someone. I don't even like anyone that much right now. My friend Laura says my dad is going to approach me about being a lesbian sometime soon.
The next day, I'm telling my mom about my latest disastrous date, in which the cad ditched me every five minutes to go talk to his friends, I mention that I'm tired of stupid boys. My dad says I should date men, meaning someone worthwhile who's been around the block. I inform him that I've had my fill of thirty-two year olds, that they're not really something to honk my horn about either. He says I have to date someone. I almost tell him that at least I haven't been on a date with a girl yet, but I'm not ready to open that can of worms.
Today at my cousin's wedding luncheon, my Grandpa Radmall, my mother's father that we've rarely seen before these last few years, talks to me about boys. He asks if I date a lot. Dad says, almost passive aggressively, that I'm not really interested in that sort of thing right now. I don't need to take that. I finish the sentence for him, "but my dad wishes I was."
My grandpa says something like "There's plenty of time for that anyway."
My dad, however, caught my tone. He says just snidely enough that only I notice the complete implications, "Rachel's so perfect--she's going to need a pretty amazing guy to ever get married. She'll have to look for a long time." Rachel thinks she's better than everyone else. She'll never be satisfied, and she'll never get married.
My eyes mist up with tears of anger and hurt, but not enough to cloud my vision too much. I look at my grandpa, but I'm talking to my father when I say, "I just need someone who will treat me like a daughter of God. That's all I need."
But even as I'm saying that, I wonder if my dad is right. If there was an uneducated, poor, unambitious young man who treated me like a goddess, I still don't think it'd be enough. I need an optimistic someone who I can talk to, who I can philosophize with, who's dreams I believe in, and who I want to be my best self for. If that's too much to ask for, maybe being an old maid at twenty is the best route for me. So next Thanksgiving, I'll be at the big kids table again, not the newlyweds, and I'll suffer through talk of points all over again, being grateful for every second the conversation doesn't turn to my love life.
Geology cake! Two of my favorite things combined! This guy had to be my soul mate. So I came up to him and, playing with my hair, flirtyingly (to my eternal shame) said, “Can you name the order in which those layers were formed?”
