One of my favorite thanksgivings wasn’t even a thanksgiving at all.
I didn’t eat turkey and no one had the day off.
The weather was miserable. Cold and rainy and gloomy.
I never seemed to get warm or dry and slept for a week on a tiny twin bed. With Shaun.
In a flat with about 4 other people I didn’t know at all.
And one I did.
We skipped work for few days, emptied out our bank account, cashed in a few old savings bonds and traded in our dollars for pounds.
And flew across the pond.
And spent the week in London.
And skipped Thanksgiving entirely.
And loved every second of it.
It was a time in my life where at parties the conversation was always steering to breastfeeding and birth control and babies.
Which was odd because we were all married with no kids.
We took our dogs to dinner parties.
Played ultimate Frisbee on the Kimball lawn every Thursday.
Watched HGTV and decorated our new homes.
We scrapbooked and redecorated and went to late movies.
We packed up and went to the beach on an hours notice.
We stayed up late at friends houses playing mafia (in real life not on facebook) and Catan and drinking wine and beer and talking about how busy and tired we all were.
We had no idea.
But Shaun wanted to go to London first.
I had a friend who was living there for a season who graciously offered us her tiny bed while she slept on the couch and played tour guide. (Thanks Susan!)
So I got a passport and a scarf and off we went.
(And it was a good thing because the very next Thanksgiving I had horrible morning sickness).
And we made memories instead of green bean casserole.