Going home for Thanksgiving means many things: too much family time, awkwardly sleeping in your childhood bedroom and outgrowing your pants by the end of the weekend. What you don’t often think of is the obligatory high school reunion that one of your friends will drag you to. That’s me. I’m that friend that’ll drag you to the family restaurant in a strip mall in the middle of suburbia because most of our graduating class is drinking there.
Why? Because there is no better way to exercise the not-so-humble brag than catching up with the redhead who was your first kiss right after you got your braces off. Do you have a bruised ego from a handful of bad Bumble dates? This will do the trick. Trust me. While some call the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving "Thanksgiving Eve”, I call it showtime.
On this hallowed night in the Connecticut commuter town where I grew up, high school alumni congregate at one of two family Mexican places, both of which turn into playgrounds for divorcees on Saturday nights when the clock strikes 9. Last year, we mobbed an over-priced taco establishment designed to look like Nantucket with its blue and white striped cushions, white wooden tables and waiters dressed in gingham button downs. But it’s located right off of route 33 and they serve a cold Pacifico and that’s really all that matters.