Every Sunday night, millions of people pour a glass of wine, settle onto the couch, and willingly invite a cascade of dysfunction into their living rooms. They watch siblings destroy each other’s weddings, parents disinherit loyal children, and long-lost twins emerging from comas. They are not masochists; they are viewers of family dramas.
We are watching the alternate versions of our own Thanksgivings. We are watching the argument we bit our tongue on. We are watching the inheritance we pretend not to care about.
So, pour the wine. Dim the lights. Put on August: Osage County or The Godfather or Little Miss Sunshine . Watch the dysfunction unfold. And as the screaming reaches its crescendo, whisper to the screen: There but for the grace of God go I.
