Glad Thanksgiving’s over

Every now and then, I feel like an alien, especially when I’m surrounded by these humans obsessed with Thanksgiving food. In America, we have this holiday called Thanksgiving. Supposedly, it’s based on some myth of pilgrims and native Americans sharing a meal together in a harsh winter and getting along for a short bit before the pilgrims started taking over all the land and massacring or exiling the native Americans. From that, we’re supposed to give thanks. Really, though, it’s about the food.

And that’s why I feel like an alien.

Last week, I was surrounded by co-workers and friends practically drooling as they thought about and got prepared to eat turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Meanwhile, I shrugged my shoulders and thought about how it’s good having a few days off from work. Mashed potatoes are okay. I can do without the gravy and all the other stuff.

Now, after Thanksgiving weekend is over, I can finally give thanks for no longer feeling like an alien. Life goes on, and I’m not bombarded with people talking endlessly about food I find disgusting.


I’m no longer afraid of death. I’m still afraid of dying, though.

You know when you hear a news story about a young person who has died and the reporter writing it has to go on and on about all the potential that person had? Oh, she was going to be a scientist, a movie star, a businesswoman. She was popular and well-liked. All that jazz. When I was a teenager, I never wanted to be one of those people. I didn’t ever want a newspaper (even if it was just the local town newspaper) saying my life ended too soon.

I’m in the beginning of my fourth decade of life, and I feel okay about things. I’m no Superman. I’m not Mother Teresa, Malcolm X, Susan Brownmiller, Greg Mortenson, or John Lennon. I’m sure there are cool things I could have done up to this point in my life that I haven’t yet done. Nevertheless, I have no lingering regrets, and I feel I’ve lived a pretty full life.

I’m not saying I want to die. I look forward to whatever God has planned for me in the future. I wouldn’t want to leave my wife widowed or our cat fatherless. I’m sure there would be people saddened by my death, so I don’t really relish the idea of dying any time soon. Nevertheless, I don’t fear it any more. If I die, I die. There are worse things that could happen to the human race than losing me. Death isn’t scary to me now.

The actual process of dying I do fear, though. Recently, there was a news story about some dude in Canada who decapitated and partially ate another passenger on a bus ride. The other passenger had been sleeping when he was stabbed and beheaded. I’m sure he woke up when he was stabbed. What a way to wake up! I don’t really know how I want to go. A violent death isn’t particularly appealing to me. Nor do I want to slowly wither away fighting cancer or Alzheimer’s. Would I want to know I was dying as I died? Or would I want to just go to sleep and not wake up? This post is getting morbid. Let’s not dwell on the dying bit to much, shall we?

Well, thank the Lord I’ve lived this long at least. I’m glad for what I’ve been able to experience and accomplish so far. And all the friends I’ve made along the way (both in-person and online) I consider blessings.