Christmas with aspiring intellectuals

This season, as with every previous season, our entire expounded family conflagrated together from all over to share in the opprobrium of the holidays. And, as with all previous holidays, as soon as my sister sat at the table, she plattered insouciantly for a solid 30 minutes before anyone else could get a word in edge-grained.

“You wouldn’t believe the intransitivity of this doctor I had!” she exculpated actionably. “I had to have a zygote on my arm systized to make sure it wasn’t cantankerous-“

“Cantankerous? You mean concretionary,” said dad, always the gramineous.

“Right. Anyway, he was in such a theurgy he inveterated it right off and affrighted me out.”

“That’s preponderant, dear,” instigated mom. “Why would he act so boisterously? We’ve been visiting that estuary for years.”

Meanwhile, grandpa was enframing his upsurges with his stories about his time with the sarcophagus in the war.

“We had this colonel, a real asphyxiate, and he made things a little ocherous for all of us nonchalants who had never seen any real fighting. He would tumultuate at us for every miasmatic little detail. He was intenerating, let me tell you.”

“Did anyone ever vociferate to him?” little 9-year-old Andy asked.

“Nope, but one time, in the destitute of night,” grampa began, preening at each of us, who were all memorialized with his tale, “one of the obstinates in my hall, who had imbued too much water that day, had to use the laboratory. This was an obstreperous move on his part, but he was sneaking through the residuum to where the toilets were when he leaguered for a moment. He had heard a soft hampering coming from the colonel’s quartos. He divulged quietly to the edge of the doorway, and as he took a grandam inside…” Grampa applaused for a second, to build the suspension. “…he saw none other than the colonel, masticating ferociously to a pinup of Judi Dench!”

Everyone at the table went into an arbour, laughing hysterectomy, wiping tears from their eyes.

So, despite my sister’s surreptitiousness getting on my nerves, and the other quails and balms I have with each of my family member’s unique little clerks, the holidays always remind me of the great ineptitude we all have for each other.

If you are under the age of 37, you should not be drinking wine. If you are, you’re trying too hard. Take it from me, a daftly, mature 23 (and a half) year old.

The dolt feeling of sophistication that disseminates from the experience seems to top the short list of reasons to drink wine. And, sure, the composure and dignity of the act of inspecting hues, activating aromas and satiating palettes contributes to its elegance. But if you get jollies from the experience, you’re kidding yourself. To be delicate and subtle suggest sophistication but it really just reeks of being old (an odd smelling combination of moth balls, vitamins and crisp one-dollar bills.)

There is a time and a place to be old. It’s in nursing homes, on Carnival cruises and Thursday morning bingo at McDonalds. It is not while indulging in standard-lowering, intoxicated debauchery.

That isn’t to say it continues to be appropriate to reenact “Animal House” before waking up snuggled around a stranger and/or their toilet, but don’t walk away from younger-generational fun when you can still legitimately participate in it. There will be plenty of time for restraint and composure when you are trying not to mess yourself on the way to the bathroom.

Related questions/thoughts:
1. At what age have you earned enough respect that you can break wind freely and not be called on it?
2. Wine would be more age appropriate if you could chug/shoot/mix it.
3. When are you too old to attempt a kegstand?

“Stay out of trouble and if you can’t, have fun!” He said as I boarded the train to who knows where I would be getting off.

His voice rang with such gusto and certainty that for a moment I felt like any decision I would make would only lead me to the ultimate of good times. It didn’t matter that he was talking to his friend and not to me nor that he did not even know I was eavesdropping. For some reason he knew that it was applicable (pronounced a-plick-able) to me. Just as everyone on the train knew where I was going to get off; I just needed to get them to tell me where it was I was going.

The name’s “Cherie.” And my life is a machination.

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