So today is St. Patrick’s Eve, an auspicious day. In my youth I would have spent today in feverish preparation; phone calls to friends to double-check plans, visit the bank machine twice because the card limits how much cash you can take out at once, extraordinary water intake all day to warm up the kidneys, frantic laundering of every green item in the closet, set the alarm clock to wake up early to make it to the bar on time, you know the drill.

But now it’s just porridge, a cup of tea and “Murder She Wrote”, like always.

Yes friends, this year is the first time I realized that St. Patty’s day is JUST ANOTHER DAY. Talk about disillusionment, jeez. It’s a sure sign of age when that happens. I used to scoff at the obstacles that a mid-week St. Pat’s presented and call in sick, just like every other early-20’s slacker, only I would call in sick the 17th and the 18th, to make sure I got an early start. My eyeballs would be dry and bloody red until Easter, if I did it right. My voice wouldn’t come back for days after. If my calves were cramped in the morning from jumping up and down all night long, it was worth it. The inexplicable injuries, bruises, scrapes and cardboard Burger King crowns, they were all a part of enjoying St. Patty’s to the utmost. We didn’t call it alcohol poisoning, we called it a good time, dammit. And if you made it through the whole day and night, on your feet, without falling asleep at the table or getting thrown out of the bar, you had a secret badge of honour you wore proudly on your chest. You and your contemporaries walked a bit taller the next day than the guys that didn’t make it, even if you felt worse than they did. Ah. Here’s to youth and being so stupid you thought you were cool.

I might just have a beer tonight, for old times sake, and maybe another tomorrow night. Won’t you join me?