We made it through the holiday. We walked the dogs to my colleague’s party in the morning. We stayed for about 20 minutes. I worked on our pies for 2 hours straight and produced a pumpkin cheesecake, a chocolate sweet potato torte and a maple cranberry cream tart. None of them were pies, actually. While they chilled, we popped in our first Bond video. I fell asleep on the floor. I brought out the pies for the second movie, putting a slice of each on a large plate for each of us. We could hardly make a dent in our slices, they were so sweet and rich. I like that to think of that as our obligatory performance of Thanksgiving gluttony.
I felt like I was holding my breath the whole day. I felt some resentment that no one invited us over. But, really, if someone had, I would have stressed about having to be social. This was a hard day. It was a hard day alone, it would have been a hard day with others. There was nowhere we could go to avoid the pain and loss. Laying low, as we did, was probably the least difficult way to get through it.
In the evening I got together with some friends at a pub. Our favorite pub didn’t open as scheduled, so we went to the only open bar. There we were–four women faculty buying pitchers at a young person’s bar. Luckily all the regular young people were out of town this weekend. I found out that divorced women are also prone to spending Thanksgiving alone. It was like I visited the underbelly of the holiday, and I learned that there are plenty of other people there, too.