The prodigal son, and I, his girlfriend, showed up for Christmas breakfast an hour and forty-five minutes late. No worries, there was plenty of fatted country ham left over for everyone. However, since everyone else had finished eating, they had nothing else to do except watch us eat our reheated cheesy grits and oyster stew. I was introduced to cousins from Kentucky and hugged by a grandmother as she remarked about how she hadn't called me by Josh's high school ex-girlfriend's name this time.
After eating, Josh was submitted to the usual question and answer routine by his mother and aunts while I felt awkward and aloof and hoped that I was coming off as worthy of their son and nephew. I reminded myself that I wanted to be there, that I had brazenly invited myself to Christmas breakfast. My family does not have much in the way of Christmas traditions, and so a week before the holidays, I had timidly asked Josh why he hadn't included me in his holiday plans. To my relief, he seemed genuinely happy to have me along and somewhat charmed by my completely rude question. My advice to all you flawed people out there: find someone who thinks it's charming.
And so that's how I ended up in an unfamiliar house on Christmas day, having taken extra care in my dress and even breaking out my electric hair dryer rather than using the atmospheric one like I usually do.
After a few minutes, everyone migrated over to the living room for another tradition new to me, the first having been the inexplicable presence of oyster stew. Josh comes from a very musical family, so where my family might have a friendly, yet aggressive game of basketball, his family has a mini variety show. There were two violins, a cello, a piano, and (my favorite) an accordian, so it was a little bit country and a little bit polka. People took turns playing and singing for the enjoyment of everyone else. While a trio of singers were preparing to perform, one of the Kentucky cousins cheerfully asked if I played any instruments.
"Nope," I replied, shaking my head.
"Oh," she responded. "What do you do?"
"I write software." I wanted to tell her that I do a lot of things, but I assumed this was the kind of answer she was looking for.
"Oh, I hate computers."
I smiled back without saying anything. I can only imagine the poor reviews I received in the station wagon on the long drive back to Kentucky, but I guess you can't win them all. No one else seemed to have a problem with my lack of musical abilities, and thankfully, no one asked me to perform.
Afterwards was the extended family game of Dirty Santa, in which Josh and I did not participate, because we hadn't known to bring a gift. Here was the real interaction, in the giant circle of people from three generations of a family that all lived on the same parcel of land. My family is rather scattered, so our get-togethers are more like reunions of old friends who maybe don't know each other as well as they'd like, but who still can fall instantly back into comfortable companionship. And yet it wasn't all that different here: there was the same gentle teasing of the kids, the old family jokes, the stories that have been told before.
And so I didn't fit in, and yet I knew that I could, given a little practice and acclimation (both for me and for them). They would get used to my candor, and I would get used to the oyster stew. I would be able to learn all their names and Grandmother would stop calling me "Laura." I would be able to tease the kids (and, man, I am good at that), and I would get the old family jokes. Maybe I'd even learn a musical instrument and the Kentucky cousins would finally accept me, software and all.
Maybe not.
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