What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

What traditions have I not kept that my parents had?

Well, let’s start with the culinary crimes.

I do not, under any circumstances, eat oyster stew on Christmas Eve. That tradition died a noble, slippery death. I’m sorry, but slurping down a hot bowl of milky ocean phlegm is not festive. It’s like trying to swallow a snowball made by Poseidon after a sinus infection.

I also refuse to eat coleslaw with anything. My parents were big fans of what I now lovingly refer to as Satan’s side salad. I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good hot dog or pulled pork sandwich with shredded sadness and mayo-based regret. Sorry, Mom. Coleslaw is cancelled.

Next up, I do not wake up in the morning and perform the sacred ritual of a cigarette and a cup of coffee like my parents did. Instead, I embrace the sacred ritual of silently glaring at the wall for twenty minutes while contemplating whether I’m emotionally stable enough to face my inbox.

Christmas? Oh yeah, I don’t open all my presents on Christmas Eve like they did. What are we, present anarchists? We save a few for Christmas morning like civilized heathens. It adds suspense, and by suspense I mean it gives me a reason not to immediately sink into a holiday existential spiral.

Also, they used to go to a crab feed every year. We don’t do that anymore, mostly because the whole gang who ran that show is now partying up in the great seafood buffet in the sky. And let’s be honest—it’s not really the same cracking crab legs without Grandpa cussing at the butter dish and Grandma sneaking deviled eggs into her purse.

I’m sure there are more, but those are the main ones I’ve gleefully defied in my quest to honor my ancestors by doing absolutely none of the things they loved. Except being funny and stubborn—those I kept.