When people ask me what my plans are for Thanksgiving, I like to describe the dinner in detail. I move closer and closer, cornering the person as I talk seemingly forever about the cranberry sauce, the turkey, stuffing, everything. And I do it with an enthusiasm that suggests that I might actually think I am the only person on earth to celebrate like this.
Or I just tell them the truth: That I’ll probably drive over to the mall and eat a steak sandwich.
“But the mall is closed on Thanksgiving!”
“The parking lot isn’t.”