“Dear God,” Julia thought as she caught the first glimpse of Uncle Terry in a ludicrous light-up Christmas tree sweater, “enforced family festivities—fucking marvellous,” she muttered, bracing herself to descend the stairs and into the waiting arms of her overzealous extended family. This was going to be hell.
The sweater wasn’t the only horror awaiting her. Aunt Marge, notorious for her “unique” perfume—more eau du mothball than Chanel No. 5—was the first to suffocate her. Julia gasped for breath as she extricated herself from the weighty embrace of Aunt Marge’s overwhelming cleavage.
In the living room, she navigated through the sea of baubled relatives, each one more fake-excited than the last. Cousin Larry, apparently now a ventriloquist, insisted on introducing his freaky penguin puppet. Julia smiled politely as he attempted to show her how (not) to throw her voice. “It’s an art,” he said. One he hadn’t quite grasped, she reflected wryly.
There was, of course, worse to come: gift-giving. How many ridiculous pairs of socks would she have to open this year? She endured the sock exchange with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Uncle Tony’s zeal over Grandma Betty’s handmade, bedazzled, jingling reindeer pair was actually quite impressive, she thought.
And then came dinner. Uncle Terry’s infamous “turducken”—a questionable endeavor that had no hope of disappearing anytime soon. Some traditions should be scrapped, she reasoned, biting into some bizarrely glazed vegetable that she couldn’t quite decide was a carrot or a parsnip.
As the evening dragged on, filled with off-key carolling and an improvised, talentless show instigated by her “wannabe pop star” younger cousins, Julia found herself—against all odds—relaxing into the spirit of it all. Not that she would admit it. She was sixteen, after all. And enjoying a family gathering would be an absurdity.
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