Last night Nate had Pre-Thanksgiving at his house. His house is so great. It's one of the only houses on the edge of the industrial area in Southeast, the train goes wailing by, there's a fortress of a factory blowing steam into air, and he has chickens and a garden and a fire pit.
Anyway, he had this dinner last year and it was quite successful, so I was looking forward to this year as well. It's a potluck and everyone made the most delicious things. There was a turkey and brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes and mashed parsnips and mac n' cheese and stuffing and broccoli casserole and mushroom gravy and other things too, but it got pretty overwhelming. About halfway through I was in physical pain. By the end I thought I was going to die. I was wearing a high-waisted (non-elastic band) skirt and tights, which was a horrible choice. It's not that the skirt was the problem, the problem was my gluttony. I just would have felt a lot better if I was wearing my gray sweatpants. Also, since it was a dinner party I couldn't just collapse on the floor afterward, I had to have conversations. And then there was dessert, which I couldn't pass up either. Once we got home I spent the rest of the evening in my sweatpants groaning and rolling around with a distended stomach. The thing is, I'm going to do the exact same thing on Thanksgiving as well. What a disturbing tradition.
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