Things at Which I Suck: St. Patrick’s Day

It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m 26-years old.

I live in Boston.

I think you all know what that means…

Sadly, no.

…it means I’ll be working until 8pm and then headed home to eat some supper and go to bed at a respectable hour. If I’m feeling in the mood for some “crazy shenanigans,” perhaps I’ll have a Miller Lite or two before retiring for the evening with a book in hand.

Yeah, I’m old. I’m sad. I’ve come to terms with it and all y’all should too.

My days of getting crazy on St. Patty’s were limited to the two years I lived in South Boston—directly on the parade route—and that’s about it.

We’d throw a party for any soul brave enough to venture into the ravenous, drunken mob that overran the streets of Southie every year for the parade. We’d hang out windows, scream at the top of our lungs, and perhaps enjoy one or two adult beverage too many.

Those days are over.

Sure, sure…I’m wearing green today and if given the chance I’ll gladly pinch anyone who is not, mostly that’s because today is the one day it’s not sexual harassment (…right?!), but in the grand scheme of things, I’m just not all that jazzed about St. Patty’s Day.

Last year was our first year out east that we didn’t live on the parade route and Grace and I totally spaced off celebrating St. Patty’s Day.

Honestly, had we not lived on the parade route—where getting intothe festivities isn’t so much an option as a survival method—I don’t think I’d have ever put anything into celebrating.

St. Patrick’s Day has been unofficially christened “National Amateurs Drinking Day” for a reason and I have no intention of going out to the bars tonight to fight with 21-year olds frat guys decked out in Celtics jerseys just to pay $8 for a beer and get wasted on “a school night.”

So it is with a heavy heart (mostly from the bacon and red meat consumption) that I must admit to you, my Faithful Readers, that I am an old fuddy-duddy who ain’t in the partyin’ spirit.

I suck at St. Patrick’s Day.

PS: If you listen carefully, you can hear Jackie Partyka weeping—albeit into a pint of Guinness—at today’s proclamation. Sorry Partyka. I’m a sad old man. Although if you were here, I could probably get coaxed into enjoying a few frosty pints of beer tainted with toxic green dye.

PPS: I’m not alone in my anti-St. Patrick’s Dayness…Three years for dudes in their mid-20s who ain’t havin’ it. Hip-Hip-Hooray. Hip-Hip-Hooray. Hip-Hip-Hooray!!

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