The one with the freckles and the buzz cut, who is apparently the Queen of the Interns, explained that I’d been named Thanksgiving’s Biggest Turkey.
Since they are millennials, who think I’m too old to understand how their keen minds work, they didn’t bother to explain the meaning of my award. They just giggled, posted photos of my reaction on Instagram, and then left to buy artisanal pickles and make their own beer.
They didn’t have to tell me what the trophy symbolized, however.
My punk interns might think I’m old and weird, but they love my blog and read it everyday. Clearly, they were making a “witty” comment about my recent posts and how I totally ruined my Thanksgiving.
All week long, the interns heard me downplaying the importance of Thanksgiving and obsessing over how I was finally going to email The Sweet Irish Girl.
They all understand why Thanksgiving is painful for me, and even though they wouldn’t comment on the situation, I knew they thought I needed to man up and either move on, or do something to reopen the lines of communication.
I kept catching the intern with the Kylo Ren tattoo and oversized glasses staring at me like he was trying to figure out my glitch, but I didn’t have time to worry about how the under twenty-five crowd was judging me.
I’ve tried everything from attempting to climb it, to pretending it wasn’t there, to calling it a giant paperweight.
Bottom line: I’m stuck.
So I thought an email on Thanksgiving would be the bulldozer I needed to clear the road and move on with my life. While I knew this option most likely meant I’d be continuing the journey alone without a beautiful Irish copilot, I held out hope that it could also mean another chance at ending up together at the future we had rigorously outlined over the course of the last year.
The problem was, I couldn’t write the email. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, even summarized it for The Other Melissa, who admitted (perhaps only to boost my spirits) that it had potential, and wished me luck.
But I couldn’t write it.
Not because the words wouldn’t flow from my brain, but because I was scared.
I was scared to death and the interns knew it. All week long, they whispered behind my back about how terrified I was to write a simple email.
I knew I would not be able to handle any sort of negative reply from The Sweet Irish Girl. I feared further rejection and the realization that whatever she said would likely be the last words I ever got from her.
The potential finality of it all was too overwhelming, and yet, I realized that the only chance I have of ever moving forward, either with or without her, was to reach out to her and see how she would respond.
But instead of boldly putting my thoughts on paper and confidently awaiting her reply, I waited until right before I went to bed to write it. I knew that with the time difference, there would be no way she’d see it last night, and I could sleep without worry.
When I woke up this morning, I put off checking my email because I couldn’t face finding a reply that was anything but positive.
I was actually relived when I finally crept into my inbox and didn’t find any missives, angry or otherwise, from the Emerald Isle.
All day long, I avoided my email. Like a total wimp. Afraid of the woman I profess to love.
I miss her, but I’m afraid that she’ll talk to me and break me some more.
I don’t really want to talk to anyone about this relationship, because no one understands how I feel. Yet at the same time, I can’t stop rambling on about it in my blog.
I’ve never been so confused, dismayed, lost, and broken in my entire life.
Clearly, the biggest turkey at The House on the Hill this Thanksgiving was not in the oven.
I’m an absolute mess…