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Last year, I decided to stay in New York for Thanksgiving with my boyfriend.

I’m from Iowa, so going home can be a hassle. I have to get time off, travel during the busiest time of the year, spend $600-plus on a plane ticket… It’s not easy, to say the least. I was happy to spend our first Thanksgiving as boyfriends together.

Something about me: I’m a planner. I need a plan. I like to plan out every day of the week, at least a week in advance, constantly afraid of double-booking or forgetting something. Wanna see a movie? Let me see where I can pencil you in. Wanna get drinks? Looks like I have a spare hour between the gym and grocery shopping.

Needless to say, I planned Thanksgiving thoroughly. A friend of his was having a gathering at his apartment: I was going to bring a pumpkin pie – but I can’t cook, because it’s me, so I’d be buying it a few days early (before the Thanksgiving rush at every grocery store took over); I was going to get a Thank You card for our host; I even knew what I was going to wear (my new Bailey sweater with Rag & Bone leather pants).

That Monday, I sent my boyfriend a text clarifying the time we should be there.

“I’m not going,” he messaged me back.

“Why?” I asked.

“I have to work – I told you that I might have to.”

For the record, ladies and gentlemen, he did not. He told me that he was requesting it off, that it would be easy because he was a senior server at his restaurant, and he told me so a month ago.

I got moody and decided to cancel everything and eat McDonalds in bed. Thanksgiving morning, I got a text: “Hey everyone, we’re on our way!” It was a group text with five of our mutual friends.

I didn’t realize I actually knew people going, and being around people I know definitely beat being alone… but I had no pie, my new Bailey sweater needed to be washed, and I didn’t have a Thank You card.

I jumped out of bed, threw on a pair of sweatpants, and got to work. I grabbed the sweater, combined it with a load of darks, raced to the basement and tossed it into the wash. I ran upstairs, shuffled around for a blank card and wrote a Thank You card, complete with a poorly drawn turkey on the front (I’m a writer, not an artist). I took the elevator back to the basement – I hadn’t turned on the washing machine. I turned it on, grabbed my wallet and ran out to the corner bodega. I couldn’t believe it, but they had pumpkin pies. I ran back home and put the laundry into the dryer.

I arrived an hour late, and someone else brought a homemade pumpkin pie, but it was still one million percent better than McDonalds in bed.

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