I like to think that as I've grown older I've become more comfortable with myself and my entire family.
The truth is, though, that beneath all of the love and support we gain from one another, there's a lot of dysfunction and baggage. Suitcases upon suitcases full, and they all smell like mothballs.
Thus, while I greatly respect Albert Einstein, I have created my own Theory of Relativity, one that actually applies to the laws of the world we are living in. And my theory goes as follows: Any person who you are remotely related to, either by blood or by marriage, has the ability to embarrass you immensely. The closer the blood relation, the greater the humiliation.
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Once I made the mistake of calling my mom and asking her to mail my fake ID up to school. She found it in my room, examined it, and decided that she didn't want me to use it. When I asked why, she said, "Because it's expired." Right, I'm sure that's the reason I would get in trouble and not because it's a violation of state law.
My Grandma Elaine's existence pretty much revolves around her complex in Boynton Beach, Fla., which is really just like camp for old people. They have movie nights, card games, clubhouse lunches, tennis matches, street fairs and concerts. But being with other old people all the time can definitely skew your perspective on things.
When she came to one of my stand-up shows at college, a comedian asked the crowd, "How many seniors do we have here tonight?" and, thinking he meant senior citizens, she raised her hand high with pride.
I hate being that family at a restaurant that always needs more bread. The waitress will come over and ask, "So, are you all ready to order?" My dad will say, "Just a few more minutes. But we can get some more bread while you're up." We haven't even ordered and we're already three loaves in.
I'm not sure exactly why, but for whatever reason my family has this notion that young Jewish kids should get a chance to sit on Santa's lap too, as if it's some rite of passage we can't miss out on. A few years ago my cousin Adam was a victim of my family's religious confusion and was forced to spend five minutes with St. Nick. I'm not sure he understood the strange nature of the visit, but I like to think he was engaging in some sort of subconscious protest when Santa asked what he wanted for Christmas and my cousin responded, "Peace for Israel."
My parents love my college dining hall. They have this distorted perception that it offers diverse and healthy eating options. The first time that they ate in the dining hall, a few of my friends sat down to join us. I turned away for one minute to speak to someone passing by, and the next thing I knew I heard my mother's excited voice saying, "Well, Neil was a c-section, actually. He was three weeks late! I don't know what he was doing in there. What were you doing in there, Neil?" I'll take putting off conversations like this for as long as I possibly could for 500, Mr. Trebek.
I used to tease my little sister Arielle by telling her two things: one, that she was adopted, and two, that I was actually a kidnapped Mexican baby and was going to return to my biological parents in Tijuana.
Neither is true, to the best of my knowledge, but lately I've been worrying that I might have traumatized her in some way. If it turns out she does need therapy, I'd be more than happy to help foot the bill - as long as her doctor isn't my uncle.
Neil Padover is a senior majoring in English. He can be reached at neil.padover@tufts.edu.
