I can clearly picture the hectic scene on Thanksgiving Day: my mother’s hustling around the kitchen, dicing carrots and stirring gravy. She checks on the turkey before adding the finishing touches to the stuffing. I’m setting the table while my sister-in-law is cutting up limes and washing cranberries for a seasonal cocktail. We all chat and laugh as we work, but make no mistake, it’s a big undertaking, as I bet you know.
But who is missing from all the planning and execution action, you ask? The men.
First I will dress casually and comfortably. I will throw on a loose-fitting pair of pants and a sweatshirt, and I will kick off my shoes to reveal a nice, cozy pair of wool socks the moment I arrive. There will be no ruffled blouses or tight pants, no heeled booties or cute ballet flats. I won’t blow dry my hair, my face will be product free, and I will reek only of Old Spice.
Then I will find my way to the corner nook of the most comfortable couch, where I will stay until dinner is served. I will watch teams that I do not know or care about play football, pretending to have a stake in the game while periodically yelling loudly with excitement or disappointment depending on the call. And while I cheer, I will enjoy a variety of snacks and dips that magically appear on the table in front of me, while occasionally yelling random reprimands to my misbehaving kids in hopes that they listen. (I won’t do any actual discipline, however.)
And then when I hear the wonderful words that dinner is served, I will slowly make my way to the table where I will unapologetically pile on massive scoops of potatoes, stuffing, and casserole. A man’s gotta eat, right? I will sit at the head of the table, cheersing to my wonderful family while adding in a quick thank you to all the women who made the day happen. I won’t pay much attention to the details of it all: the intricate table settings and twine wrapped napkins, the freshly shined silver and perfectly presented and garnished cocktails. I’ll laugh and chat until it’s finally time for dessert, at which time I will make my way back to my couch cushion and await the cleaning and clearing of the table.
Once the treats are all perfectly laid out in an aesthetically pleasing fashion, I will then yell out my dessert order, while I continue to cheer for my now-favorite sports team. And once my desired pie is carefully handed to me on a scalloped dish (with extra whipped cream!), I will wolf it down, moaning periodically about how full I am. After my last bite, I will unbutton my pants a bit and really mold myself right into the couch for maximum digestion relief game enjoyment as all the dishes are magically cleaned.
And about an hour later, as I start dozing off for a nap, I will realize it’s time to go home. I will roll out the door fully fed and rested — pants likely still unbuttoned, with a big smile on my face — excited to do it all again next year.
Samm is an ex-lawyer and mom of four who swears a lot. Find her on Instagram @sammbdavidson.