I always forget about this part when I'm making my holiday plans.
The part where I haven't belonged here for years, and it's enormously awkward to pretend to. The part where "here" keeps changing - burrowing deeper and deeper into Nowhere, U.S.A., as though my parents are drifting down a river of better post-AF career moves into the heart of WalMart-infested darkness.
Guess what, guys? Mistah Kurtz, he dead, and you'd better make it to one of the coasts soon 'cause I'm starting to worry about you.
My family is completely mad. Most families have Christmas dinner. We work out together for three hours a day (that's one hour at 6:30am and another two in the evening, when most families have dinner - 'cause this family doesn't eat after lunch. It's unhealthy, you know.) There's no sugar here; no flour. The fridge is full of fat-free yoghurt and sugarless orange juice and zero-fat soy cheese. I'm going to leave here sunken-eyed and sinewy.
Okay, maybe not sunken-eyed and sinewy. The junk in my trunk is sealed in the sidewalls like crack cocaine, and I like it that way.
Good thing I've got a list of great restaurants in Boston. Honey child, I'm going to eat and drink and frolic myself silly. I have a dream, and that dream is lobster puffs and pumpkin ravioli and succulent misbehaviours.