It's that time of the year. In fact, as of press time it’s that day of the year when families come together and break bread in the spirit of “thanks.” Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, from across the country, from across the street … and in some cases, from just down the hallway.
They get together and tolerate each other with a thinly veiled annoyance that is dependent upon their level of intoxication and/or their level of participation in the festivities at hand. Don’t get me wrong; for some (the majority, in fact) there are no problems whatsoever. Well, at least none that would impact the actual meal and the times before and after it.
Other families? It’s sketchy, and I have strict policies when dealing with that level of dysfunction (specifically, the inability to be civilized enough for eight hours to be able to not have to call the damn police to your screwed up household on a national holiday that I am usually annoyed to be working in the first place). But let’s not dwell on the insolvency of the family unit when pressed together like cattle in a chute. No. I’m a cheerful, positive guy and this is a Holiday Issue, after all!
Thanksgiving. And to what does an undeserving soul such as I give thanks? Such a question, and not one to be taken lightly.
I’ll start simply: Yoga Pants. I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am thankful for Yoga Pants. Rarely have I seen them displayed in an offensive fashion, and more often than not I even see them displayed in packs.
Yoga Pants have even changed the way I look at mornings, because the exercise crowd from teens to seniors have embraced them for both form and function—and so have I. Thank you, Matt Donkersloot and Taylor Lindsay. Sixty years ago you knew that nearly any ass could be pressed into a shape DaVinci himself would approve of (even mine, being an avid cyclist and all), and you made that dream a reality for all mankind. If you’re still alive (and you damn well deserve to be), I owe you a solid “Thanks!”
That may seem weird, so let me get a little more predictable: The Swiss Wagon Factory.
The Swiss Wagon Factory was the precursor to the Swiss Industrial Company (or in its native tongue, Schweizerische Industrie-Gesellschaft), better known by its initials “SIG.”
Sig Sauer has changed the way I work, shoot and place stickers on things. Hats, keychains—the whole package. A gun is an important part of a cop’s life, and Sig has made me rediscover the love I once lost after Smith & Wesson gave me a shit-ton of nightmares, random bouts of “the shakes” and other dysfunctions that accompany their professional use. I didn’t think I could love again, really, until I met this matte black beauty. I’m hooked.
Along the same lines (regarding nightmares and shakes, I mean), I am thankful for term limits.
I’m not talking about presidential term limits, of course; who cares now? And the current city council voted down putting term limits on themselves, so naturally I’m speaking of Mayor Ron Littlefield.
I am thankful that his term is ending, and that 9,000 out of an estimated 160,000 citizens won’t have the opportunity to put him or his still out-of-their-depth staff back in office (which is all it took the last time) and therefore complete whatever quest he is on that, nearly eight years later, no one can put a finger on unless they are a convenient sole-source bidder, a victim of sexual harassment or a victim of crime.
Indeed. While occasionally a bit of a “frowny-face,” I too have an obviously large heart and agree that we do, indeed, have so very much to be thankful for.
Enjoy your day, and carry it on into many others. But if you can’t, for God’s sake, do not call the police if your dinner goes to hell. You’ll be Thankful you didn’t.
(Get it? I know, right?!)
Alex Teach is a full-time police officer of nearly 20 years experience. The opinions expressed are his own. Follow him on Facebook at facebook.com/alex.teach.