Thanksgiving: separating the men from the boys. In this analogy, I’m definitely prepubescent. That’s fine, though, because I had a lovely time of it. Thursday, arriving home with two pies – my first ever attempt at baking – one for my family and one for my soon-to-be in-laws. There was the eating, the relaxing, the playing board games with my parents, and then eating some more. By the time I remembered to post it was too late, so I decided to take the weekend off. Friday I spent all day with one of my oldest friends, reveling in the kind of conversation you can only have with a very few special people, the kind of conversation that spins out for hours and never gets old. Saturday was my mother’s birthday, so we went shopping in Boston on my dad’s tab, then out for an extravagant dinner with plenty of wine. At 8:45, I left for drinks with another of my hometown comrades, and at 10:30 I got a call from home.

There’s nothing scarier than hearing your mother cry. In that second before she tells you what’s wrong, your mind can extrapolate all sorts of horrible scenarios – your dad’s been in an accident, your sister crashed the car, please come home, I fell down the stairs.

The rest of the night was spent waiting to hear news of my grandpa’s condition after his massive stroke at the Country Club. It was not an awesome night, and I couldn’t sleep until 4am. I haven’t felt quite right since, to be honest, and while it very well might be due to the fact that I haven’t slept in my own bed since Wednesday, haven’t changed my bra since Thursday, and don’t remember the last time I wasn’t wearing these jeans, I feel like it has more to do with a bunch of larger issues. Not just grandpa, not just my mom, not just too much turkey and not enough water. I don’t like to write when I’m feeling this way, but Katsumi said that people were starting to worry. So here’s an “i’m not dead” post.