Squeeze. Pass it on.

Ever since Brad and I coupled up and began dividing holiday time between our respective families, my Thanksgiving Experience has undergone a bit of a shift. It's like this: what was once a joyful, delightful celebration marked by mass pie consumption and near-constant drunkenness, has now become a joyful, delightful celebration marked by mass pie consumption and near-constant drunkenness... in which I am periodically paralyzed by the fear that, due to my decidedly un-Southern upbringing, I will blow it with my husband's family by committing some sort of terrible, unforgivable, crude Northern faux pas.

In my worst nightmares, said faux-pas results not only in complete humiliation, but also immediate expulsion from the family.

"Get out, you Yankee whore!" my in-laws scream, in the imagined aftermath of my imagined offense. "And give us back our surname!"

Chances are, this will never happen . Not because I'm incapable of doing something really stupid as a guest at someone else's home -- trust me, I am more than capable -- but because Brad's family is so nice that they would almost certainly forgive whatever I'd done. With the exception of, say, setting their house on fire. Or at least, setting their house on fire ON PURPOSE.

But that doesn't stop me from worrying about it. And that goes double when I find myself in unfamiliar territory with regards to family traditional activities -- when it becomes obvious that Something Important Is Happening, but I don't quite know what, and all I can do is surreptitiously watch Brad for social cues while praying that my intrusive brain will stop distracting me with ridiculous thoughts like Hey, what if you shouted "PENIS!" right now?

So, when we were sitting down to dinner on the day before Thanksgiving, and my father-in-law suddenly motioned to everyone to hold hands and bow their heads, I joined hands with Brad on the right and my brother-in-law on the left... and immediately started worrying. (Ah, secular upbringing: Great in every way, except for the lingering awkwardness and uncontrollable urge to giggle when people are saying grace.) Half-listening to my father-in-law's speech, I eyed my fellow family members for cues as to what we were doing -- Should I look more serious? Bow my head? Apologize to my brother-in-law for the sweaty palms? -- and then suddenly, on my righthand side, Brad squeezed my hand.

In its hyper-observant and nervous state, my brain responded by freaking out.

What was that? He never squeezes your hand during grace! What's going on?

Sweating, I looked around again. I was running out of time to figure it out. Were other people squeezing? Was I supposed to DO something?

And then, at the height of my confusion... he did it again.

Holy shit!, my brain screamed. It's got to be some sort of family ritual!

And then, a rush of familiarity: it clicked. Of course! They were passing it -- passing the squeeze! Each person pressing the hand of the family member to their left, thus sending a little bolt of love around the circle. Thanksgiving! Family! Comfort and joy! It made perfect sense.

Sighing with relief, and not wanting to be responsible for breaking the cycle, I immediately gave my brother-in-law's hand an affectionate squeeze.

At which point my logical brain, which had been quietly standing to the side in order to perform a non-panicked analysis of the squeeze, looked up from the corner and said, What the HELL did you just do?

Gripped with the sudden, inescapable sensation that I had been a bit too hasty in my hand-squeezing, I tried to calm myself by watching the movement make its way around the rest of the circle.

Look, I thought, staring at my brother-in-law's other hand. There's gonna be a squeeze over there. Wait for it!

I waited.
Nothing happened.

You asshole, my brain said, as my cheeks started to get red of their own accord. Passing the squeeze? Are you serious? That's something you do in high school drama club, not while saying grace! You just squeezed your brother-in-law's hand like some kind of surreptitious flirty person! What is WRONG with you?!


But while the potential fallout of this squeeze-passing misunderstanding -- "Uh, Brad? Your wife was hitting on me." -- could have been the game-changer that resulted in both intense personal embarrassment and possible eviction from the family, it was Thanksgiving. A time to forgive, a time for extra-special family closeness, and a time, if there ever was one, to do your extended family members a humiliation-saving solid.

Which is why this post is dedicated to my 6-month-old niece -- who, just as I was in the midst of immediately and intensely regretting the squeeze, did me the immense favor of distracting my brother-in-law by throwing up all over him.

The resolution of this possibly-mortifying situation has left me blissfully free to forget all about the squeezing incident. It's over, it's done with, and I can absolutely devote my full attention to other, more important things.

Like the box of tampons I accidentally spilled all over my in-laws kitchen floor.