You know that feeling when the holiday season rolls around and everyone is just brimming with joy and gratitude, while you’re over here feeling like the Grinch who stole Christmas (or, in this case, Thanksgiving)? Yeah, that’s me. And let me tell you, it’s not exactly a fun place to be.

Every year, as the leaves start to turn and the air gets a little bit crisper, I watch in dismay as my friends and family get swept up in the Thanksgiving fervor. They’re planning their menus, buying their turkeys, and talking about how grateful they are for all the blessings in their lives. And me? I’m over here, trying to figure out how I can escape the whole thing without looking like a complete and total Scrooge.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and I appreciate all that I have. But there’s just something about Thanksgiving that rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the constant pressure to be “thankful” and “grateful” for everything, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m expected to sit around a table for hours on end, making polite conversation and pretending to enjoy the endless parade of casseroles and pumpkin pies.

Whatever the reason, I just can’t seem to get on board with the whole Thanksgiving thing. And this year, it’s worse than ever.

It all started a few weeks ago when my mom called to ask what I was planning to do for the big day. “Oh, you know, the usual,” I said, hoping to avoid the inevitable interrogation. “Maybe I’ll just order a pizza and have a Friendsgiving celebration with a few of my friends.”

But, of course, my mom wasn’t having any of that. “Tina, honey, you can’t be serious!” she exclaimed. “Thanksgiving is a time for family. You need to come home and celebrate with us.”

I could practically feel the migraine starting to build behind my eyes as I tried to come up with a diplomatic response. “But, Mom, I really don’t feel like dealing with the whole big family thing this year,” I pleaded. “Can’t we just do something simple, maybe just the three of us?”

But, as usual, my mom was having none of it. “Nonsense!” she said, her voice taking on that familiar “I’m not taking no for an answer” tone. “Your Aunt Mildred is coming, and your cousin Timmy is bringing his new girlfriend. It’s going to be a wonderful celebration, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

And that, my friends, is when I knew I was doomed. Because when my mom gets that look in her eye, there’s really no arguing with her. So, with a resigned sigh, I agreed to attend the family Thanksgiving festivities, already dreading the inevitable awkward silences, passive-aggressive comments, and uncomfortable questions about my love life (or lack thereof).

As the big day approached, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of Thanksgiving-related anxiety. I could practically feel the tension building in my shoulders as I imagined the endless small talk, the overly enthusiastic “oohs” and “aahs” over my Aunt Mildred’s famous green bean casserole, and the inevitable moment when my grandma would corner me and ask, for the millionth time, when I was going to “settle down and give her some great-grandchildren.”

And, of course, there was the food. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Thanksgiving feast as much as the next person. But there’s just something about the sheer volume of it all that makes my stomach churn. I mean, how many variations of mashed potatoes and stuffing can one person realistically consume in a single sitting?

But, like a dutiful daughter, I dutifully showed up on Thanksgiving Day, a fake smile plastered on my face and a bottle of wine clutched firmly in my hand (hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to get through these family gatherings, am I right?).

And, to my surprise, the first part of the day actually went relatively smoothly. My Aunt Mildred’s casserole was, as always, a culinary masterpiece, and even my grandma managed to refrain from her usual interrogation tactics (at least for the first hour or so).

But then, as the meal wore on and the wine started to flow a little more freely, the cracks in the facade began to show. Suddenly, my cousin Timmy was regaling us with the sordid details of his latest romantic escapades, my uncle Bob was telling inappropriate jokes, and my mom was doing that thing where she passive-aggressively criticizes my life choices (or lack thereof).

And, of course, the inevitable “when are you going to settle down and give us some grandkids?” conversation reared its ugly head, with my Aunt Mildred leading the charge.

“So, Tina, dear, any special someone in your life we should know about?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Uh, no, not at the moment, Aunt Mildred,” I mumbled, desperately hoping to change the subject.

But Aunt Mildred was having none of it. “Oh, come now, there must be someone!” she pressed. “You know, your cousin Timmy is just about the same age as you, and he’s already got a lovely girlfriend. Maybe you two could double-date sometime!”

At this point, I could feel the eyes of my entire family boring into me, and I knew I had to put an end to this conversation before it spiraled completely out of control.

“Actually, Aunt Mildred,” I said, mustering up as much confidence as I could, “I’m quite happy being single at the moment. I’m focusing on my career and my friends, and I’m not really looking to settle down anytime soon.”

The look on Aunt Mildred’s face was priceless – a mix of shock, confusion, and a hint of disappointment. But, to her credit, she didn’t push the issue any further, and the conversation eventually moved on to more neutral territory.

As the meal wore on, I found myself oscillating between moments of genuine laughter and joy (when my family managed to find common ground and bond over their shared love of bad puns and terrible dance moves) and moments of pure, unadulterated stress (when Timmy decided to use my favorite throw pillow as a makeshift soccer ball).

And, of course, there was the endless parade of food. Plate after plate of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and turkey, all vying for a spot on my already-full plate. I tried my best to smile and nod, to ooh and ahh over the culinary masterpieces laid out before me. But, in reality, I was just counting down the minutes until I could make my escape and retreat to the safety of my own home, where I could indulge in a heaping plate of pizza and a glass (or three) of wine.

By the time the last slice of pumpkin pie had been devoured and the dishes had been cleared, I was more than ready to throw in the towel. I had survived another Thanksgiving, but at what cost? My sanity? My dignity? My waistline?

As I sat on the couch, nursing a glass of wine and trying to ignore the lingering scent of roasted turkey, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of… well, not gratitude, that’s for sure. More like a strange mixture of relief, exasperation, and a healthy dose of guilt.

Because, let’s be honest, I know I should be grateful. I have a loving family, a roof over my head, and more food on my plate than many people in the world. And yet, here I am, feeling like the world’s biggest Thanksgiving Scrooge.

But, you know what? I’m okay with that. Because at the end of the day, I’m just being honest with myself. Thanksgiving isn’t my thing, and that’s okay. I don’t have to force myself to be someone I’m not, to pretend to be grateful for things that, quite frankly, don’t bring me joy.

So, if you’re out there, feeling like the odd one out at the Thanksgiving table, take heart. You’re not alone. There are plenty of us Thanksgiving Scrooges out there, quietly sipping our wine and dreaming of the day when we can just order a pizza and call it a night.

And who knows, maybe one day we’ll find our own way to celebrate the holiday – maybe with a Friendsgiving feast, or a quiet night in with a good book and a slice of pumpkin pie. Because at the end of the day, true gratitude isn’t about forcing ourselves to be someone we’re not. It’s about embracing the things that truly make us happy, even if they don’t fit the Hallmark-approved version of Thanksgiving.

So, here’s to the Thanksgiving Scrooges, the reluctant guests, and the pizza-loving rebels. May your holiday season be filled with the things that bring you joy, and may you never feel guilty for not being “thankful” enough. Because, let’s be real, sometimes the best way to show gratitude is by taking care of ourselves, even if it means skipping the family dinner and opting for a slice of pepperoni instead.