It’s November 18th, and you know what that means. Nope, not Christmas. Not yet, anyway. We are not even allowed to utter the name of that fat man in the red suit. No, it’s still the season of gratitude, a sacred 30-day holding pattern of gratitude wedged between Halloween and America’s annual capitalist Christmas orgy. So stop pretending it’s snowing when there’s still pumpkin spice dusting the air like cocaine on Wall Street.
You premature decorators are the absolute worst. You’re out here stringing up lights, hauling out inflatables, and hanging wreaths on your front doors before you’ve even digested the Halloween candy. There’s something fundamentally wrong with your wiring. Do you hate gourds that much? Are you violently allergic to a cornucopia, or are you just so desperate for “holiday cheer” that you’d turn a blind eye to the only day of the year dedicated solely to gorging yourself into a coma while being grateful that no one’s asked your political opinions at the dinner table yet?
Thanksgiving is a hallowed holiday. Or at least it was until you and your faux snowflakes decided to desecrate it. Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we? Back in 1621, the Pilgrims—you know, those buckled hat weirdos with bowl cuts that made the Amish look like avant-garde fashion icons—sat down for a feast with the Wampanoag tribe. After a year so bad that 2020 would give it a sympathetic nod, they decided to share a meal in peace, breaking bread before promptly going back to screwing each other over. And sure, the history of Thanksgiving is as sanitized as a white suburban mom’s Christmas Pinterest board, but the sentiment—the idea—was pure. A feast. A day to say, “Holy hell, we made it through the worst year of our lives, and we’re still here to eat the harvest.”
Isn’t that worthy of some respect? Some acknowledgment? Just for a damn day, put away your LED icicle lights and pay homage to a holiday that demands nothing from you except a passing attempt to pretend you like your family and an enthusiastic stretch of your stomach lining. Thanksgiving decorations aren’t hard, people. We’re not asking for a full-blown Norman Rockwell scene here. Throw out a table runner, place a few sad-looking faux pumpkins on your porch, and call it a day. Is that so much to ask? Look, I get it. Christmas has all the glitz and glam. But Thanksgiving is that one relative who doesn’t talk much, but when they do, you’re like, “Damn, they made some points.” And the point here is gratitude.
Gratitude for not having to hear Mariah Carey wail until December 1st. Gratitude for elastic waistbands. Gratitude that, for one day, your carb consumption is not only socially acceptable but encouraged. And yes, gratitude that we live in a country—however flawed, however frequently insane—that still gives us something to be thankful for, like deep-fried turkeys and the Black Friday stampedes that follow.
So for the love of mashed potatoes and everything good about this nation, keep your tinsel in the attic and your reindeer in their boxes until we’ve given thanks. Let’s have our moment of silent prayer, giving thanks for everything from our healthcare benefits (if you’re lucky) to the fact that your Uncle Larry’s latest conspiracy theory stayed on Twitter and not at the dinner table.
Then, once we’ve scraped the cranberry sauce residue off the counter, sure. Go nuts. Crank up the Nativity scenes. Drown your house in so many lights the FAA lists your home as a potential airstrip. Commercialize Christmas until your credit card companies call to make sure you’re not in the middle of a holiday-season-induced breakdown.
But until then, until we’ve bowed our heads and said our thanks, just…chill. This isn’t just a holiday; it’s a national buffer zone, a carb-heavy ceasefire. Respect the Thanksgiving aesthetic—one lone turkey braving a sea of mistletoe maniacs. Because if that turkey has to fight the good fight, you owe it to him to wait a damn week or two before you desecrate his sacrifice with your peppermint-scented assault.
