There are some of us who live for the A-OK to strap on the holiday feedbag and rejoice in Thanksgiving gluttony one gravy Slurpee at a time. And then there are the sick freaks who opt to jog through downtown Charleston Thanksgiving morn instead of tucking into a pecan pie with a green bean casserole chaser like a damn American. Convinced that the spectacle known as the Turkey Day Run was merely myth, last Thursday we gulped down a cinnamon roll and drove to Broad Street to witness the race.
All was quiet until suddenly, like a swarm of Spandex-clad bees, they appeared: hundreds of runners racing down Meeting Street. Some wore fuzzy turkey hats, their heads inserted into the cavity like sweaty versions of turduckhumans. Others appeared like a herd of marathoning Pocahot-asses in feathers and faux buckskins.
Children joined the adults, speeding through the city streets, although the run was eerily quiet. With all the true patriots at home chin deep in corn pudding, there were but a handful of supporters to cheer the runners on. We watched silently as the growing ranks moved from the road onto the sidewalk. “Get out of the way, asshole,” one sprinter shouted at us. And this, boys and girls, is what the season of giving is all about.
Friday, instead of hustling over to Walmart for a 50-inch TV, we plugged away at work. That was until our benevolent overload released us into the Black Friday wild. King Street was, not surprisingly, swamped. Every tourist from Dayton to Columbus was shuffling between Victoria’s Secret and The Gap, taking a rest for only a praline sample in between. We confess we got caught up in the flurry too, elbowing shoppers in the dark corner of the Anthropologie sales rack — that skirt was mine, twit! But lest you think all our change went to chains, we popped into Candlefish as well. Rewined’s new Wentworth Street store had everything a fragrance-loving shopper could want — lemongrass-scented candles, lavender-scented candles, lemongrass and lavender scented candles. We walked away with a calendar for our dear mama and got two free sets of fancy matchsticks as a bonus.
By Saturday, our pocketbook was empty, but our need for socializing was still going strong. So we swung over to the Charleston Farmers Market thinking it was Holiday Market time. Yeah, no dice. That starts next week. The only signs of yuletidey-ness was a stack of Magnolia wreaths for sale. But that didn’t dampen our Christmas spirits. We devoured a warm vegetable salad from Outta My Huevos — because why stop the Thanksgiving gorge just because your tights are rolling down your waist with every step past a vendor? — and took in the scene. Children danced around the green, families shared laughs while ordering Bertolini’s Soprano’s pasta package, and all was merry and bright.