Anne Nahm turns 13 years old this month!

What is this feeling? Pride? Horror? Stroke? My fingertips are tingling and I feel a little lightheaded. And then a little sad. And then complacent, and slightly hungry. It’s the 12 Stages of Blogging over here.

I must confess to you that our family has given up all things Thanksgiving. Our extended families are miffed. But frankly, nobody at Chez Nahm likes turkey, traffic, or guest rooms.

Plus, we live in California, so there’s hardly a reason to bundle up against the formidable outdoors, and drink all day while stuff cooks. Our November holiday has become an inside-out sock: clearly very wrong to anyone witnessing, but soooo much more comfortable. PS, we have tacos, and it’s allllll guacamole and salsa up in our house.

Which? People often seem more offended by the tacos than by the dipping out on relatives. Many people get very defensive on behalf of turkey and stuffing, like I am hurting the turkey’s reputation/feelings (although it seems like turkey would be on my side in this argument). Turkey has friends like this:

With the time freed up from not stuffing a big-assed bird and cooking that mutherfucker, we often hit the beach.

While we walked the coastline, I saw a couple taking a selfie.

They were sitting on a piece of driftwood. Late thirties to mid-forties, a bit overweight, similar in age and attractiveness. And I could read on her face, the disappointment of scrolling through the photos as she took them.

I knew that look well. The camera has this insidious way of making you feel 20 and Insta as you take the photo, and haggard as fuck when you review the photographs you took seconds later. Look at that neck crepe. Look at those pores. Look at the horrid shadows under your eyes. And frankly, at this stage in the game, the specter of knowing you can barely handle the way it looks now, and this is the best it’s ever going to look again. I could see by the slump of her shoulders how those pictures were a hard smack.

The guy sitting next to her was only looking at her, not the camera. He had this love-struck eye contact, adoration written all over his face. Not old love, but that new, fresh falling-in-love intensity. It was shocking to me.

How easy it is to hate my middle ageness, how insidious and socially acceptable those feelings are. Here’s another way I could relate: I don’t think she saw him in all his goofy puppy eyes, even though his attraction to her was obvious to me at 50 feet away. I guess like ghosts, you have to believe at some level to be able to recognize their presence.

We walked farther, and came across a cove filled with rocks stacked upon rocks.

It was kind of amazing to think that maybe a couple, or a group of friends, stacked a few rocks on a lark. And then passersby added, until there were hundreds. What a strange feeling to be in a place where people have extra energy for whimsy.

Hope you had a good holiday!