Marcie was not much of a fan of St. Patrick’s Day at the pub. Irish and beautiful as she was, she just never quite hewed to that cultural tradition while she was with me. That did not mean she wanted me to eschew celebration on the night of Saint Patrick’s. We just went about it differently than most.
The most Irish we became on Saint Patrick’s was to buy a bottle of Bushmill’s and a six pack of beer, enjoy some corned beef and baked or fried potatoes, skipping cabbage and going with a nice salad instead. She also foisted split-pea soup with bacon on me, usually. Dessert was a delicious bit of cake, usually chocolate with some green dabs of butter cream frosting, a nod to the reason for it all. Following that, we had the usual indulgences, mood permitting, of course.
However, I can honestly say that I have not been out on Saint Patrick’s since the second year we were together. Never once did we go to an Irish bar with my red-headed beauty in tow (or towing me). Tonight, that changes. I am going out and staying out, and trying to have a bit of merriment with it all.
I wonder, if it happens, how long it will take when I do go out tonight for me to get that old feeling of discomfort I used to while in bars or at friends’ houses without her…
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