“Tis the season of staying in doors.
Years ago, when I moved to the Midwest, I wondered why the holidays went by so much faster here than on the coasts. I soon realized it wasn't that time and space behaved differently in the Midwest, it was because we spend so much time standing in a doorway, one hand on a doorknob, resisting the leftovers, hugging, promising to come back, resisting the leftovers again, Hearing just one more story because we can't reveal ourselves, the holiday is over before we can get to a second holiday gathering.
They call it the Midwest Goodbye.
When I mentioned the phrase to my wife, she had no idea what I was talking about, even though she grew up in Michigan. I guess the fish never know the water.
Who says that, he asked. People, I said. What people, he asked. People not from the Midwest, and people from the Midwest, I said. In Minnesota, they even call it the Minnesota Goodbye. As proof of its truth, I offered a mathematical example: If we have to leave for Thanksgiving dinner at your parents' house in Michigan and it's 8 p.m. and it takes four hours to get to Chicago, what time do we say “Well…” and start moving toward the door if we have to be home by midnight? The correct answer is 4 p.m
I'm not writing this out of exhaustion, annoyance, or any real desire to get back to work and the inevitable post-holiday malaise. I say this from cultural anthropology. Italians also believe in epic goodbyes. Southerners pride themselves on their reluctance to switch from long welcomes to short goodbyes. Even in the bowels of Middle-earth, at the front door of Mordor, rather than a story that goes on and on, and a long walk home, Frodo turns to Sam and says not, OK, let's bounce, but rather, “I'm glad you're here with me. Here at the end of all things.” There are too many “heres”. I would already be in the car.
That said, a Midwest Goodbye would tax even Tolkien.
My research has identified no less than 12 stages:
No. 1: “Well…” The guests telegraph that they will be leaving soon. (In a proper Midwest Goodbye, only the person saying it should know its intent. No one else hears you.)
#2: You stand. Stretch. Ask where your coat is. In this step, the forgotten pie will make an appearance at the last minute. (Add about 20 minutes to your exit time.)
No. 3: “Okay, so…” Stretch your arms out for a hug. I remain. (Add one hour for five stories.)
No. 4: Ask where your coat is. Experts know that this is actually a trick that puts you close to the door, where you want to be. Discuss when you will return.
No. 5: Remove the leftovers. If it was that good, like you said, why don't you want more? Your logic is being used against you. But no one can find plastic containers. (Add 30 minutes.)
No. 6: Someone in your party needs to go to the bathroom before you leave. Back to the beginning. Everyone sits back and discusses what they are broadcasting. (Add two hours.)
#7: More hugs. “Oh! Do you know who died?' (Add 20 minutes.)
No. 8: You reach the door. But how the stuffing was made is a 45-minute banquet.
No. 9: Your hand is on the doorknob. Okay, now that's real.
No. 10: Talk on the street about when they turn on their Christmas lights. Last year they waited too long. This year everyone is early. People on Facebook say it's going to be a revolution, but I swear it's the same people who have time to hang 10,000 lights. You'd think they'd be chopping wood or something. The nuts of the world.
No. 11: Lower the window. There are only six more stories. Kill the engine.
No. 12: Restart the engine. On your way out, wave. Wave to anyone in a window. Wave in the mirror – your hosts are on the road and wave as the sun rises behind them.
I have thought of a solution in the Midwest Goodbye and my answer is: Chexit. The exit of Chicago. Different neighborhoods or suburbs may adopt their own names: The Winnetka Toodledo. Pullman Ta-Ta. The Wheaton wave. The Bridgeport SeeYa. But the steps are the same: When it's time to leave, you thank everyone and leave.
You're nice, but everyone's time is precious, so you just walk away.
It's not a great solution, and it may sound obvious, but if you're from the Midwest, ask yourself: Have you ever had someone say “Goodbye” when you just… permission? Have you ever allowed this to happen within 10 minutes of a visitor noting the time, the route they are taking? It may sound indulgently rude to say you're leaving and then do it, but no one likes goodbye.
That's the beauty of the Irish Goodbye, which means not telling anyone you're leaving, but just getting away before the inevitable promises to meet again next week. Irish Goodbye is a social introvert's dream. It's excitingly secluded! Moreover, unlike most ghosting, it is almost sensitive to the inadequacy of the goodbye. But it leaves regrets and a lack of closure. Linguists trace the Irish Goodbye to an earlier nickname from the 1800s: The French Leave, which is closer to snark, less rude than a retreating army that takes no time to say goodbye. How did this turn into an Irish goodbye? It's not clear, but there are so many variations – the Dutch leave, the Polish exit, the Texas farewell – that the claim that this is a local feature is meaningless. One of the biggest pop songs of the last few decades is “Linger” by the Cranberries, an Irish band.
I am just saying'.
After all, Midwest Goodbye and critics complain about two sides of the same coin: There's never enough time. For yourself. For family. For friends. The holidays may be over before they start. Midwest Goodbye, at its heart, is a hug for whatever time remains. So, get some stuffing, okay? What am I going to do with all this food?
cborrelli@chicagotribune.com
