If there is a broken bit of sidewalk, or a hole in a lawn, or a doorknob that sticks out just a bit too far, or a nail that someone didn’t hammer down, or something teetering, just about to fall off a shelf…

… it will find me.

Most of my life, I’ve been the person people tell stories about at parties:

“My friend ran into a sign when she was riding an ice block down a hill and bashed off her toenails!”

“My friend tripped over a chair and broke all her fingers in one hand!”

“My friend was floating on a surfboard, and someone jumped on it, and it broke three ribs!”

“My friend had a full urn of coffee fly into her face at Starbucks!”

“My friend was walking through a dark forest and bumped into a deer, who kicked her in the shin so hard she has a scar!”

And it’s not that I really mind; our scars make us more interesting, everyone enjoys a good cringe story, and rarely does anyone point out that my pinky finger looks like a piece of driftwood.

But the fine art of being a dramatic klutz has begun to pale in comparison to, say, walking in heels without looking like a clown on stilts, or say, revealing my legs in a dress without looking like I’ve been caned.

I can do my hair up, put on my makeup, find a nice outfit to wear, and yet somehow, my ability to move gracefully through the world never quite kicks in to match the effort.

It’s not like I have some sort of biological or medical reason to be this way — sure, there’s been an inner ear thing now and then, when I have a cold or get dehydrated, but that’s only ever the icing on the pain cake. And sure, I’m not exactly a tiny flower faerie, mincing through petals on the breath of a butterfly.

But the sheer breadth of accidents — the ability to find the sharp rock, or locate the wasp’s nest, or tangle the sailboat rigging in my hair, or give myself a black eye with a blow dryer — points either to Nature’s desire to take me the hell out, or some sort of unique sixth sense about where to seek out bruises.

So is it possible to STOP being a klutz, when you’ve been a klutz all your life?

CAN you be more graceful?

And if so, could I stop wearing elbow pads and a helmet to take a shower?

I spent my first Thanksgiving in the U.S.(2010) meeting my now-in-laws for the first time.

We made a quick trip down to South Carolina for a few days of getting to know them, and some of their dear friends (and knocking two more states off my “been there!” list.)

Christmas 2010 brought us to Vancouver, where Gradon got to spend some more time with my family (he actually met all of my mom’s side of the family in December 2008, when he came to Vancouver for the first time.)

Now, less than a year later, our families have had the chance to meet one another in Boston, and we’re married — for a month today, in fact.

I can’t believe how different my life looks from just four years ago.

That’s why this Thanksgiving kind of tops all the ones that came before.

I mean, yes — I’ve always been thankful for my family. I am more blessed than I can possibly say with all the love I’ve experienced in my 37 years. But now I have my own — a family I chose.

And yes, I’ve always been thankful for having a place to live and food to eat. But now every home I have, I’ll share it with the same person. And we have thousands of meals together to come.

Certainly, I’ve been thankful for work that I could be proud of, and for learning and growing in my skills. But I didn’t ever dream they’d take me across a border and a continent, and make it possible for me to start my life here.

My friends have always been amazing. And not just because I love them, but because they are remarkable people in and of themselves: funny, gifted, brilliant, and special. Now I’ve added a bunch more on a new coast, along with their families — the newest members of which will call me Auntie Meg.

So it’s not that I lacked things to be thankful for in years past.

I’m just completely overwhelmed at how many more things I have now, and how many more I will discover in the years to come.

So, this Thursday, I will sit down to carve a little turkey with my fantastic, handsome, funny husband, after spending the day sleeping in, having brunch, cooking, watching football, and hanging out together at home. Just the two of us, until Ethan joins us for the weekend.

It will be the smallest Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever been a part of.

But no doubt my heart will be more full than my belly has ever been.

I grew up in a very Christmas household.

My mother has up to 8 trees decorated throughout her house — some according to a specific theme (say, one just with red cardinals, or a “family tree” with an ornament for each member of our extended family), and some more eclectic (the other “family tree” with sentimental ornaments from various years and travels — including a new one from their trip to Boston in October.)

My father has so much Christmas music — from multiple recordings of the Messiah to John Denver and the Muppets — that he could play it non-stop for a week and not hear the same performance twice.

We’ve hosted Christmas dinners and Christmas open houses, stacked the Christmas baking to the roof, and created our own set of Christmas traditions — from the things we do when we decorate a tree (after an initial “test plug”, we don’t turn the lights on until all the ornaments are placed, and we’re sitting down with all the lamps switched off, a glass of Martinelli’s apple cider in hand) to what we listen to coming home from family events on Christmas Eve (a recording of Dylan Thomas reading “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”… a piece we all know so well that we laugh in advance of our favorite parts.)

I’ve performed in Christmas plays and Christmas choirs, done a Christmas solo in front of 2,000 people (gah!), had a host of special dresses made by my mother for Christmas events both as a child and as an adult, and had the good fortune of living with my best friend — a fellow holly-mad girl who likes to put up her tree at the beginning of November and listen to Christmas music from October onward — for three very Christmas years.

I think much of my enthusiasm for the season began with my life in church growing up — but even after moving away from home and not being part of my father’s congregation anymore, I’ve still spent the last two months of every year gawking at garland and playing “A Charlie Brown Christmas” all day at work.

I’ve been with my parents every Christmas of my 37 years thus far, too.

Even if I’m only with them for a couple of days during the holidays, we manage to fit a lot of the traditions in. Last year, I had the joy (well, joy after a major delay in our trip to Vancouver because of a snowstorm that stranded us in Montreal) of introducing Gradon to life with Christmas junkies during a quick trip home last year. My brother (way, way up north) has missed a few years, but me?

Never once.

This year, however, because of all the wrangling around becoming (more officially) a part of the country I live in now, I won’t be headed home to trim the tree or to go for “light drives” (which is something I’d beg to do every night in December as a kid.)

I’m excited to begin our traditions as a family here, but I know it’s hard for my parents — my dad especially — because we’re so sentimental about our Christmas-ness. Most of their good friends have their kids close by, so there’s never a missed year in their celebrations. Even if their offspring spend the day with their in-laws, they show up for some portion of the holidays.

But I don’t live close by — not by a long shot — and life is more complicated for me. I chose the complications, mind you, but that doesn’t mean they don’t present small challenges at times.

Some of you, I’m sure, are reading this thinking that…

a. We are a bunch of freaks
b. We are a bunch of freaks and this really isn’t the end of the world, spaz
c. That your family is not this obsessed, and you’re thankful, because whoa
d. You wish you had an idyllic situation at home — this I know, because friends have said that my entire life
e. Seriously, it’s one day of the year

I get it.

But there are many steps to beginning a new life in a new city with a new family, and this is one more, so I’m cutting myself some slack when it comes to sentimentality.

Gradon does not come from such a tinsel-riddled clan, so part of me wondered if my enthusiasm for the smell of pine and the sound of sleigh bells would freak him out. But, as with most of my other obsessions in life, he has stepped up to enjoy things with me — exactly as I have done with most of his loves (except for ’90s hardcore punk music. There are limits.)

The other night, we sat under a blanket my mom knit for us, drinking cinnamon-y tea, and creating a room-by-room Google doc of what decorations we wanted to get, and how we would deck our (bigger than last year) halls.

He even phoned the nearest Christmas tree farm (without being asked!) to find out when we could go pick up a spruce or fir to grace the living room.

He’s on board. And I love it.

But in thinking about all of this, I’m conscious of the reality that most of us spend our lives either
aligning ourselves with,
living up to,
smiling back on,
accepting with conditions,
distancing ourselves from,
or totally rejecting the things we knew and experienced growing up. You choose a position based on how you feel about your early years, and what feels right now.

I have friends who don’t spend time with their families because the day they left home felt like emerging from prison. I have friends who dread going home, because things have changed radically since they were a kid, via divorce or a death in the family or a fractured relationship. I have friends who have worked hard for years to accept their parents as they are, despite difficult memories, and they steel themselves for a few days back in the insanity.

I get why they hear my stories about Christmas everything, and think my entire family is bananas.

I also have friends who don’t celebrate Christmas for whatever reason, or who think Christmas is over-commercialized, or who find the music annoying, or who see it as a stressful time of year that costs too much, kills their schedule, and makes them want to get away from it all.

I don’t force them to listen to carols or blather on to them about the red cups at Starbucks.

It’s just not everyone’s thing. Fair enough.

But it’s my thing. And my family’s thing. And now Gradon and Ethan’s thing, by proxy.

I am going to miss the Christmas madness back at home with my parents. They’ll miss me, too, and my boys.

But in the midst of so many big changes in my world over the last year and a half, I feel beyond blessed to have such amazing memories over the years, and the chance to create my own amazing memories with people I love.

Not to mention welcoming new friends and family into my particular brand of crazy…

…starting now.