Sunday finally arrives
You thought Sunday would never arrive. It had seemed like such a good idea – the right thing to do- last September when you invited them to join you for Thanksgiving in San Francisco. Wednesday went well. It was warm and dry and you all went out for Chinese food on Clement Street. Thursday was lovely. Full of thanks, turkey and champagne cocktails. And then, as you went to bed on Thursday night you realized that they were not leaving until Sunday. And it was going to rain on Friday. Now what? Rising to the occasion, as the gracious host that you are, you took them to Union Square for shopping and the Christmas tree lighting that evening. Saturday you treated them to a morning walk at Crissy Field (surely this would tire them out) and then lunch at the Ferry Building. Boy, those cocktails at Slanted Door are the best, aren’t they? This is fun, isn’t it? Who says the holidays are stressful? Then you realized that you were actually yelling at the clerk at Sur La Table because he didn’t know what size baking sheet you had at home. Ooooops. With the last ounce of dignity and good sense left in your body you hailed a taxi, sent your relatives to the Metreon to see a movie and you went home alone.
Now it is Sunday morning. They are packing. And you are giving thanks. Thanks that you live here and not there. Thanks that you have the good fortune to live in San Francisco and the common sense not to do this again. And when they hug you good-bye on the sidewalk this morning and tell you that this is the best Thanksgiving they have ever had, believe them. And try to keep that smirk and look of relief off your face as the taxi pulls away from the curb.