Around the Thanksgiving table, there are things you say you’re thankful for because of course you are. And there are things you don’t admit to being thankful for because you know better. Here I am, refusing to know better.
I’m thankful for . . .
All the people in our neighborhood who can hear us yelling but pretend not to.
People who, when they pray in public, don’t go on forever.
Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” Because that’s a good song.
Everyone around me who makes a diligent effort not to fart.
That when I look down at people and use my low esteem of them as an excuse to invalidate their negative opinions of me, they do me the favor of pretending their retaliations against my arrogance are simple unfortunate accidents.
The way our bodies and our brains are designed to keep most of the nasty stuff from just trickling out.
Bad things that happen to bad people.
Things that happen to them and not me.
Lapses in my memory that really work out to the benefit of everyone.
Curse words. See also: the ability to mutter under my breath.
That my kids are quite a bit like me even though I know where that can lead.
Everyone who thinks I’m kidding.
Everyone who thinks this is the worst of it.
Everyone who doesn’t read this.
Everyone who falls into none of the previous three categories but loves me anyway.