*This article is satire.
4:30. – My dad walked into my room, blaring a fog horn suitable for a mid sized ocean liner in my direction. The sheets on my bed fly off my body from the sheer percussive force of the sound waves. Dressed in all neon clothes, he tells me to “Get up, son!”
4:45. – After putting on the well-fitting turkey costume my parents had lovingly picked out, complete with a feathered cap and awkward tail, I walk downstairs and see all of my distant relatives, some of whom have flown in from across the country to watch this particular turkey, trot around downtown Detroit.
4:50. – When I get downstairs, they are all talking about horrible it will be finding parking in Detroit and how tall I have gotten in the past year.
5:00. – After everyone eats 6 donuts and drinks a pot of coffee each, all of my family gets together for a yearly family picture.
5:45. – Both of my parents have now launched into full panic mode about the traffic, and they are certain we’ll be disqualified before we even get there. “If only we’d left at 3:30!” they exclaim.
6:05. – It took us 20 minutes to find a 200 dollar parking spot.
6:10. – As my dad begged the people behind us not to block us in, my mom took the time to make us take more pictures with our customs on. “Smile dears! We’re making MEMORIES!”, she screams as I force a smile, sweating in my costume despite the sub zero temperatures.
6:15. – My siblings have been looking forward to this morning for what seems like their entire lives, giddy about being up so early on Thanksgiving day; making it easier on my parents. My parents are already beaming at the starting line, while I’m mentally calculating how many calories of much Thanksgiving pie I can burn off in calories.
6:30. – As we walk towards the starting line, thousands of people are waiting to start the race, and my parents have to stop and talk every five minutes. As we stop for yet another mini family reunion with “Uncle” Joe’s best friend’s second cousin.
7:00. – The whole family gets in line to start the race. We hear the horn blow, and everyone in the front starts to run.
7:10. – Only 50 minutes until the Lions game! My dad calculates that at this rate, we’ll have 13 minutes for Thanksgiving dinner.”
7:15. – After 15 minutes of waiting, we finally get to the front and can start the dreadful jog. I had to pick up the pace a little because I was worried that I would disappoint my family for not finishing in record time. As I started running faster, my parents told me to slow down and that they did not care about the race but they only wanted the donuts at the finish line.
7:20. – Only a couple of minutes in. My stomach is already hurting and both my siblings are complaining.
7:25. – There are many fans on the course cheering us on. I don’t know if it’s encouraging me to continue running or encouraging me to quit.
7:35. – By this time “we” are almost done with the race. My sister started walking half a mile back and my brother probably already finished because he sped ahead of us five minutes ago.
7:45. – I crossed the finish line, smiling wide, unsure if my happiness came from the running or because the running was over. Now all I have to worry about is whether the Lion will win or not.
8:15. – After what felt like hours of waiting for my sister to finish, we walked back to the car just to see that we were blocked into the parking spot.
8:30. – Finally, after getting out of the parking lot. We waited another 40 minutes to get out of Detroit and head home. We finally escaped Detroit traffic. I realize I might be too exhausted to lift a fork, let alone enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. At last, after surviving parking, neon costumes, distant relatives, donuts, and a 5K, we’re home—just in time to collapse into our Thanksgiving meal with the turkey, who also never asked for this.
